Peter went on, with a new violence, "I know all you'll say about it, so I'm not going to give you the opportunity of saying it till I'm gone. You needn't think I'm going to tell you now and let you tell me I'm wrong. I'm not wrong; and if I am I don't care. Please don't stay any more; I'd rather you weren't here to-night. I don't want to tell you anything; only I had just got to say that, because you were thinking.... Oh, do go now." Rodney sat quite still and looked at him, into him, through him, beyond him. Then he said, "You needn't tell me anything. I know. Lucy and you are going together." Peter stood up, rather unsteadily. "Well? That's not clever. Any fool could have guessed that." "Yes. And any fool could guess what I'm going to say about it, too. You know it all already, of course...." Rodney was groping for words, helplessly, blindly. "Peter, I didn't know you had it in you to be a cad." Peter was putting books into a portmanteau, and did not answer. "You mean to do that ... to Denis...." Peter put in socks and handkerchiefs. "And to Lucy.... I don't understand you, Peter.... I simply don't understand. Are you mad--or drunk--or didn't I really ever know you in the least?" Peter stuffed in Thomas' nightgowns, crumpling them hideously. "Very well," said Rodney, very quietly. "It doesn't particularly matter which it is. In any case you are not going to do it. I shall prevent it." "You can't," Peter flung at him, crushing a woolly rabbit in among Thomas' clothes. Rodney sat still and looked at him, resting his chin on his hand; looked into him, through him, beyond him. "I believe I can," he said simply. Peter stopped filling the bag, and, still sitting on the floor by it, delivered himself at last.