Taking him on his knee, his father had explained matters. He was to be a little knight and not to cry. He was to ride out into the world alone for the good of the lady he loved best. One day he would return to her, and then----. With his mother it was different; she wept and quite evidently expected him to weep too. She didn't want him to go. It was not her doing. She loved him to be Peterish; she would not have him otherwise. To her he could confess. “It's here, mother,” tapping his breast; “I can't help it really. But I'll try.” No, he couldn't help it--that was the worst of it--any more than he could help hearing the whistling angel. He could pretend that he wasn't Peter, just as he had pretended not to hear the angel whistle. But he would not be able to change; he could only learn to wear a disguise. If school could teach him to do that, years hence he might prove worthy to live again at Topbury. Because he felt that he was to blame, he strove to be very brave; if his eyes filled with tears sometimes, it wasn't because he wanted them to. The respite shortened. Letters passed to and fro between his father and Uncle Waffles, between his mother and Aunt Jehane. Their contents, discussed at the breakfast table, cast a gloom over all the day. Many schools were offered, but the best for Peter's particular case was one kept by Miss Lydia Rufus. Aunt Jehane would look after his clothes, and he could spend his Saturdays at Madeira Lodge. Madeira Lodge! That was the house at Sandport which sheltered Uncle Waffles. It was stamped in red letters at the top of his note-paper and proclaimed magnificence. It rather tickled Peter's father's sense of humor. “Anything from Madeira Lodge 'smorning?” he would say, with a twinkle, as he sorted out the letters. “But why stop half-way in intemperance? Why not Port Wine Terrace, Moselle Park, in the town of Champagne? Ocky's too modest.” Or he would say, “Lord Sauterne of Beer Castle informs his nephew that Miss Rufus's pupils require a Bible, an Eton suit and two pairs of house-shoes.” Peter would greet his father's jokes with a strained but gallant little smile. “We men must keep up the women's courage,” his father had told him. It was hard to keep up other people's courage when your own was down to zero. By the time they left the cottage in North Wales everything had been arranged. There was just one short fortnight left in which to get Peter's wardrobe together, mark his linen and finish off his mending and sewing. The mornings were spent in visits to shops, where boots and gloves and suits were fitted on and purchased. A knight when he rides into the world alone must set out duly caparisoned.