Lady Mary came in as they spoke. Peter was astonished at the ease with which they talked together of small things. He tranquilly withdrew at the end of a few moments. Lady Mary was frank and free. She seemed entirely at peace. There had not been a sign of effort in her friendly greeting. XXXVII In the following months Peter realised to what extent his late devotion to Lady Mary had filled him. Now that she was only one of his best friends, he was at first vacant of enthusiasm. Then he began to discover all kinds of neglected ties with people whom before he had hardly noticed. Ostensibly Lady Mary was still supreme, but, curiously as it seemed to Peter, though her sacrifice and the wonder of her great career set her higher in his admiration, it had made this admiration less tremulously personal. The ecstasy had gone out of it. It no longer shut out the undistinguished world. He discovered now that he had other friends; that he was liked by some of them; that their liking was gratifying and merited some small return. Since Haversham had been claimed by his public and hereditary life, Peter had become attached to a frequent visitor at Arlington Street. James Atterbury was a young and successful caricaturist who had also written and produced several plays. His activities were financially unnecessary, so that in a sense he was an amateur. He was socially popular, and Peter met him everywhere. Gradually he had taken Haversham's place. Like Haversham, he was tolerant and urbane. He had long abandoned those visions which now were driving Peter restlessly from day to day. He was a cheerful man of pleasure, living for all that was agreeable and could be decently enjoyed. He had watched, with respectful irony, Peter's absorbed devotion to Lady Mary, and had keenly speculated as to how it would end. When the end came, Haversham plainly hinted that Atterbury would do well to help Peter recover an early interest in people and things. "Certainly," Atterbury had said. "I'm rehearsing a new play at the Vaudeville. Peter shall attend." "Is that adequate, do you think?" "Yes, Tony. Rehearsing a play is the most distracting thing in the world." So Peter, plunged into a new atmosphere, sat for hours upon the small stage at the Vaudeville watching, with growing interest and amusement, the pulling together of a mixed company. "It's like a children's party," Atterbury told him. "At present we are a little shy, but soon it will be a bear-garden. They will forget that I am the author, to be loved and respected. By the time we are ready for the public, I shan't be on speaking terms with anybody." "Except Vivette," suggested Peter, looking towards Atterbury's principal lady. "You've noticed Vivette?" "I've noticed you always give way to her." "Not always." "Usually, then." "Usually she is right. She is really improving my play."