Marbury looked affectionately at Peter. Peter had met Marbury going to his room. He was without a collar, and he looked forlorn. Marbury put a hand on his arm: "Wenderby shall apologise," he said gravely. "He's a charming fellow, and he is very fond of young people." Lady Mary, fresh from canvassing, shared a late supper with Marbury and Peter. She joined with her brother to wring from Peter a full account of his adventure. Peter began sorely, but at last detected in Lady Mary an unconfessed approval. Clearly she liked him for his protest. He even dared to think that she admired. Peter was gradually more happy, and soon was enjoying his escapade. He even displayed, in mock heroism, the large blue marks upon his neck. Later, in his room, Peter found in the events of the day a consecration of his devotion to Eustace Haversham. Unessential incidents fell away, and he was glad of his protest--mistaken though it seemed, and ridiculous. Next day was Sunday, and meetings were suspended. The house was very quiet, and Haversham was not in his usual place. Marbury told Peter he might not again come down. After dinner, Peter slipped on to the terrace and faced the shadowy moor, lifting his head to a faint breeze from the sea. He stood beside the bronze figure he had so often admired. Before him was the wilderness, but civilisation was behind in the murmured voices from the drawing-room and those harsher cries Peter had lately heard from men made selfish and bitter. Surely it was well that this triumphant figure should brave the desert, and that in its shadow a beautiful life should be passing. It flung out the challenge of art and wisdom. It was a consummation for which millions worked, and now it confidently stood, as though aware of what it had cost, resolved that it was well worth the price. Peter wondered whether it were justified. His dreaming was broken. Lady Mary rustled beside him. "You have found this place?" she said after a silence. They watched the superb silhouette of the statue fading as the light emptied rapidly from the sky. "I am wondering whether he is worth while?" said Peter, waving his hand at the figure between them. "What is your riddle?" "He has cost a thousand lives." "You are talking like a Socialist," said Lady Mary curtly. Peter felt in her a coldness that passed. She was looking over the moors as though she followed the blind eyes of the naked boy. Her attitude suggested that she, too, was part of this challenge. Her dress, conveying to Peter an impression of complicated and finished art, fell away from her shoulders as, with head flung back, she filled her eyes with the beauty of earth and sky. She interpreted in radiant life the cold metal of the statue. Civilisation was justified in her, or it could not be justified. "Have you never any doubt?" said Peter, wistfully impulsive. Lady Mary turned slowly from the moor. Her calm eyes swept over him. "Doubt?" she echoed.