Peter eagerly bent forward. "You remember," he said softly, "a night upon the terrace at Highbury?" Lady Mary looked at him, terror waiting to spring at her heart. "I hardly know," Peter continued, "whether I still believe all that I believed at Highbury. It is all too insolent, and some of it is foolish and cruel. I have seen ugly and brutal things. I am beginning to see that there are no classes. Rank is nothing at all. There are only people." Why did he talk like that to-night? It was intolerable. "You are wrong," she cried out. "Wealth is nothing, and there are bad shoots in an old tree. But there are men and women who must think and rule. It is their right." "That may be only your beautiful dream." "Peter," she called distressfully, "you don't know what you are saying." He looked at her in wonder at the veiled agony of her voice. The pure white line of her face showed like stone in the shutting light. There was a short silence. Then Lady Mary spoke again: "I want you to suppose something," she said urgently. "It is possible that I may be asked to make a sacrifice for this belief of mine. It will be painful for me and for my dearest friend." "Nothing in the world is worth a moment of your pain." Peter's sincerity redeemed from ridicule the tragic untimeliness of his dithyrambic assurance. Lady Mary was brought nearer to tears than to laughter. "Not even my faith?" she protested. "It would be an evil faith, or it would not make you suffer." "Why do you put me so high?" Again there was a note of stress. "I shall always do that." He put his hand firmly upon hers that rested on the side of the boat. She held her breath, fighting the desperate flutter of her soul. When she dared to look at him, she still met the shining worship of a boy. His hand rested upon hers, temperate and cool. She was glad she had not trembled or drawn away. Peter felt only an exquisite sense of privilege. He sat with bright eyes, happy in her beautiful austerity. She triumphed over her thrilled senses, and in her triumph faced him carven and tense. The light faded rapidly. Colour went out of the sky and the water. Lady Mary took a long farewell of Peter's adoration. She knew that the light in his eyes was soon to be put out. At last, with a deep sigh, her hand still quietly held, she said: "Now, Peter, we must go. We have no light in the boat." He reluctantly made ready the sail. The breeze caught it rudely. Their dream was broken up with the noise of water and wind. They came within sight and sound of the river. Peter lowered the sail to row in to the side of their wherry. There was only a moment now. Lady Mary caught at Peter's wrist upon the oars. "You will believe in me always, Peter?" "Always." "My life may take me away from you," she desperately urged. "We read things differently." A burst of laughter came from the deck of the wherry. Lady Mary withdrew her hand from Peter's wrist.