Soon she was playing the happy comrade of Peter. He soon attended rehearsals regularly without prompting from Atterbury, and Atterbury usually made excuses to send them away to a friendly lunch. Atterbury was unable to resist the comedy of seeing them together. They inspired the most famously cruel of his social caricatures. Peter looked forlornly innocent beside her. Cytherea's Pilgrim, Atterbury named him. His simplicity and perpetual fervour aggravated the lightness of Vivette. In Atterbury's penetrating eye, each made a caricature of the other. It was a sense of this which threw them more and more closely together. Each was determined to touch the other and to make a proselyte. Peter wanted to be taken seriously by Vivette. Vivette wanted to see Peter come down from his golden throne. Peter watched the first performance of the play from a box with his mother. Later he attended, without his mother, a supper party in the rooms of Vivette--a rambling flat among the chimneypots of Soho. She was bright with laughter and success, and Peter frowned to observe how easily she caught the mood of her company. He felt he would like to say or do something to bring depth into her eyes. Peter and Atterbury were the last to leave, and they sat for a while to enjoy a friendly conversation. Vivette curled herself up. "This is heavenly," she purred. "I simply love peace and quietness." "I've noticed it," said Peter bitterly, surveying a litter of empty champagne bottles on the table behind them. "Don't, Peter. You are spoiling the beautiful silence. Besides, your views are all wrong. The only people who really understand peace and quietness are people who also like a jolly good racket. We get it both ways." "You always do," said Atterbury. "Life is the art of getting it both ways--eh, Vivette?" "Not worth living," grunted Peter. "That's your ignorance, Peter," said Vivette. Her eyes suggested a wicked godmother. "I don't know what's going to become of Peter," she added confidentially to Atterbury. "You are really anxious?" "Naturally. Peter's a temptation to all of us. He is so aggressively pure." "You, at any rate, are safe," Atterbury audaciously hoped. "For the time being," Vivette reassured him, "if Peter will only smile now and then. But he mustn't go on wearing his beautiful character like a medal." Peter had bounded to the far end of the sofa. Now he rose, offering to go. "You want to discuss me," he said. "It doesn't matter, thank you; but if you really must--" Vivette held out her hand politely. Peter smacked it suddenly. Then he sat down again. "What a wicked child," said Vivette, turning again to Atterbury. "Did you ever see such a temper? It's a curious thing about me," she added, discussing an interesting problem in character, "every man I have anything to do with sooner or later wants to hit me." "Men like to be taken seriously." "You never want to be taken seriously, do you, Jimmy?"