For a moment Peter caught at a hope that yet the mysterious rift might close between the soul and body of his love. Must he always be thus divided? Was he never to know a perfect passion where the blood ran in obedient rapture to celebrate the meeting of two in one? He remembered the beautiful girl he had tracked on a summer night, to shrink from taking her because his spirit was her enemy. Now that he in spirit loved Lady Mary--he insistently fought through to-day's murk back to his adoration--he was still divided. His moment of hope died out. He had no right to Lady Mary. He could not passionately claim her. His passion would fail again, as to-night it had failed, leaving only the senses to be fed. He did not love her. Brutally it came to that. Lady Mary must take the way she had herself appointed. She could not be asked to put away the work of her life in return for a worship that fed upon the air, or for a hunger that seized on a vanishing feast. Himself he felt entirely in her hands. He hoped to be forgiven, and accepted as the witness of her dedicated life. But he did not expect it, or make a claim. He reached Curzon Street at ten o'clock, and found his mother returned from dining out. Mrs. Paragon now had her own friends. She quietly came and went, usually not asking how Peter fared. All his time was taken up with Lady Mary, and with Lady Mary she left the issue in perfect trust. But to-night she was startled from her assurance. Peter, unaware that he betrayed himself, had the face of a soul newly admitted to damnation. "What has happened to you, Peter?" she asked. "Nothing, mother." She came to him where he had flung himself into a chair beside the fire. "Has Lady Mary sent you away?" Peter stared at her in amazement. He had never talked of Lady Mary. But he always accepted his mother's mysterious knowledge. "She is soon to be married, mother." "Lord Wenderby?" This was more than Peter could accept. "You know that also?" he exclaimed. "I saw Lord Wenderby one day in these rooms," said his mother quietly. "I knew he was in love with Lady Mary." Peter looked keenly at his mother. "You are sure he loves her?" he asked. "Quite." "I should be happy to believe that. It gives him a better claim." "Better than your own?" said his mother. She was at last surprised. "I have no claim at all. I do not love Lady Mary." He was quaintly wretched. His mother almost smiled. She saw a light in the cloud, but it puzzled her. Would he then have preferred to love Lady Mary and to lose her? "Tell me what has happened," she said. "I don't understand. You do not love Lady Mary--is that your trouble?" "She told me of Lord Wenderby," Peter obediently answered, "and I was mad at the idea of losing her. I grasped at her. I was like a wild beast." "But you do not love her," Mrs. Paragon persisted. "It was not love made me behave like that. It was brutal. I had no true passion at all. I disgusted her." Mrs. Paragon suddenly rose.