Rondel in this Precipice of his has done some splendid work. We had him to tea the other day and really he seemed quite a nice unassuming fellow—”
“Oh! shut up,” Bobby growled. “You talk too much, Percival.”
Peter was growing. Quite a short time ago he would have been furious, would have gone into his shell, refused to speak to anybody, been depressed and glowering.
Now, smiling, he said:
“Alice, won't you consider it and come up and dine with us after all to-night? It's only my mother-in-law beside ourselves—”
“No, thanks, Peter, I mustn't. The boy's not quite the thing.”
“Well, all right—if you must.”
Nevertheless, it hurt, although it was only that young ass of a Galleon. That, though, was one of the pits into which one must not look.
He felt the little square box that contained the ruby, lying there so snugly in his pocket. That cheered him.
“I must be getting back. Good-night, everybody. See you at dinner, Bobby.”
He went.
After Percival and his sister had also gone Alice said:—
“Dear Peter's growing up.”
“Yes,” said Bobby. “My sweet young brother wants the most beautiful kicking and he'll get it very soon.” Then he looked at the clock. “I must go up and dress.”
“I'm rather glad,” said Alice, “I'm not coming. Clare gets considerably on my nerves just at present.”
“Yes,” said Bobby, “but thank God Mr. Cardillac's in Paris—for the time being.” Then he added, reflectively—
“Dear old Peter—bless him!”
