Perhaps Mrs. Paragon was right, and Peter was really jealous. Wenderby clearly belonged to the party which had arrived in town. He knew the language. He did not make heroically foolish scenes at a public meeting. Probably he had never incurred the laughter of Lady Mary. She did not make allowances for him, or look at him with protection in her eyes, or take an interest in him as someone from a strange world. Wenderby knew all that Peter had yet to learn. Peter himself was worried to account for his ill humour, and even came to the point of asking himself the question which his mother had already answered. He decided that he was not personally jealous. Rather he was jealous of the privilege and experience which made Wenderby at home and at ease in the world which Peter desired to enjoy. Haversham had told him that Wenderby was a charming fellow. Peter wondered whether he would ever be a charming fellow; and, in a fit of misgiving, began to exhaust the possibilities of self-contempt. He had had a glimpse of the beautiful life; but suppose he were not worthy to enter. Suppose Haversham could not be the friend of a young colt who had nothing in the world to fit him for an agreeable part in the social comedy. Suppose he would never again come into touch with exquisite creatures like Lady Mary. Suppose he were doomed to follow the witty pageant of London life (which now was a Paradise in Peter's fancy) only through the columns of the fashionable intelligence. Suppose it were his destiny henceforth to hear of Lady Mary only when she happened to be entertaining Wenderby. Peter was chewing this bitter cud at his mother's tea-table in Curzon Street when his man-servant (Peter, to his mother's dismay, had insisted on a man-servant) announced the figures of his meditation by name. Peter rose in a whirl, and before he had possession of his mind Haversham and Wenderby were taking tea with Mrs. Paragon. Mrs. Paragon received her guests with monumental calm, answered their inquiries after her holiday in Scotland with a quiet precision which suggested an irony of which really she was quite incapable, and wondered meanwhile why Peter was less talkative than a meeting with his best friend seemed to require. "Peter," said Haversham at last, "you seem depressed." "Not at all." Peter was the more laconic because he was suffering a quiet, persistent scrutiny from Wenderby. "This," said Wenderby, "is surely not the sanguine young man who brought me to judgment." "You remember that?" asked Peter briefly. "I have come to apologise," Wenderby explained. "I told you he should apologise," said Haversham. "Isn't that for me to do?" asked Peter. "I don't think so," Wenderby smiled. "You lost your collar and were nearly strangled." "I would do it again," said Peter cheerfully. "I admit the provocation," agreed Wenderby. He was quite unruffled by the vibrant conviction of Peter's voice.