They came to him, however, when they were free--Olive Crewe and her husband, Shirley and Mr. Geoffrey Crewe, several of the bridesmaids, and even Brant Hille, and Peter said all the things that were expected of him, and said them well. He might be no "society man," as he had said, but he possessed the self-command and quickness of wit which take the place of familiarity with such situations. Arthur Crewe liked him better than ever as the two shook hands, and Peter spoke his quiet but earnest words of felicitation and prophecy for the future. "I ’m sorry I can’t be here to see you when you get about again," said Crewe, at parting. "I can quite fancy the energy and enthusiasm you put into your work." "I don’t need to see you at yours to be sure you ’re a steam-engine both at project and performance," responded Peter, smiling. "We ’d work jolly well together, I venture to say," said the Englishman. "Perhaps we’ll have the chance some day." "I wish we might," and Peter gave the friendly hand a hearty grip. "Good-bye--good-bye. The best of luck." Peter sat alone upon the Townsend porch, waiting for someone to come and take him home. Everything was over; the bridal pair had gone; the last lingerers along the lantern-lighted paths among the shrubbery had straggled in and reluctantly taken their departure. The big marquee in the centre of the lawn, where supper had been served, was empty except for scurrying caterer’s men. The string orchestra stationed in the summer-house had at last stopped playing, mopped their perspiring heads, and packed up their instruments. Mrs. Townsend had betaken herself to her room in a state of collapse, requiring the attendance of her husband and Jane; and Murray paced up and down the upper hall, thinking to himself that he had never before realised what unpleasant things weddings were when they occurred in one’s own family. As for Shirley, no one had laid eyes upon her since the moment when the Townsend landau had driven away, with everybody throwing confetti, and Olive, leaning out, had flung her bouquet straight at her sister’s feet. Everybody had laughed as Shirley picked it up, but the girl had run away with the white bridal roses crushed close against her breast, her lips set tight and her eyes brilliant with unshed tears. She and Olive had been more to each other during this last year than ever before--and England, as a place of permanent residence, seemed a very, very long way off. It was odd that at the last everybody seemed to have forgotten Peter. Ross, laughing with a pretty girl, had walked directly past him and gone home, unmindful. Peter had supposed he would come back, but he did not. The servants were busy, the quiet of the deserted porch restful, and Peter leaned his head against one of the tall white pillars, thinking less of the evening that was past than of the future that was, coming--so soon as he could walk sturdily about once more.