“I can’t, very well,” murmured Peter inaudibly. Then: “But has he always been so ill? For twenty years? Or”--he fixed her a little more directly--“is there something besides illness?” She did not answer. She rose and looked out of the window, and as Peter rose and stood beside her, she lifted one hand to his shoulder. There was something ineffably gracious in the gesture. She seemed to be making it all up to him. “Such a patched life, Peter,” she murmured. “You can’t blame him for not having wanted me to come.” “Oh, he didn’t want you to come?” She hesitated for an instant. “No. And now I must go.” “Now?” he asked stupidly. “Oh, yes, at once. I shan’t have time to dine with you.” She looked helplessly about for a scarf that she had thrown down. “But no!” Peter broke out. “It’s preposterous. To come like this and go like this! Your train doesn’t go for hours--if you will go to-night.” “But I haven’t arranged for it. I haven’t packed.” “Why, you haven’t unpacked!” he cried. “Oh, I think Frances may have. And I mustn’t fail to get off. There are the tickets to get, too. Peter, I _must_ go.” She spoke as if to delay were unspeakable treason; and, as she spoke, she turned to cross the room to the door. “I say,” said Peter, standing squarely in her way, “why did you come? You shan’t go without telling me that.” It wasn’t the way to speak to one’s mother, but she had chosen to discard the maternal code. She broke off in the act of withdrawal and turned to him. Her blue eyes were tearless but very sad. “I loved you dearly when you were very little,” she said simply. “I’ve never quite forgotten that. I suddenly realized that, if I waited any longer, I could never come. I think it was a cruel and foolish thing for me to do, and I’m a little ashamed of it; but--kiss me, Peter.” Before he obeyed, he clutched at one more straw. “You won’t see old Martin?” “I said good-bye to him a great many years ago.” She smiled. “I had no one to see in America except you. No--there’s a cab waiting. Good-bye.” He kissed her then. It was clear to him that he might only watch her go. He saw her stop to rouse the old servant who waited in the hall. Then she passed, with strange grace, out of his life. * * * * * There was only one tone to take with Marty, who arrived, as always, late and breathless. “She’s the most charming woman I’ve ever met, and it’s the devil’s own luck that she had to go straight on to Vancouver to get a steamer back. My father--who is apparently a charmer, by the way--is very ill. She’s wonderful. It’s the biggest thing that has ever happened to me. She’s made everything as right as right. But I can’t tell you about it. After twenty years--you understand, old man----”