if it hadn't been for you. It's a hell of a place and I suppose if the mater hadn't been abroad so much I should never have stayed on. But it's no use making a fuss. Besides, it's only for a little while—one will have forgotten all about it in a year's time.”
Peter smiled. “You will, I shan't.”
“Why, of course you will. And you must come and stay with us often. My mother's most awfully anxious to know you. Won't it be splendid going out to join her in Italy? It'll be a bit hot this time of year I expect.”
Peter seemed to struggle with his words. “I say—Cards—you won't—altogether—forget me?”
“Forget you! Why, good Lord, I'll be always writing. I'll have such lots to tell you. I've never liked any one in all my life (this said with a great sense of age) as I've liked you!”
He stood up and fumbled in his coat. Peter always remembered him, his dark slim body against the sky, his hair tumbled about his forehead, the grace and ease with which his body was balanced, the trick that he had of swaying a little from the hips. He felt in his pocket.
“I say—I've got something for you. I bought it down in the town the other day and I made them put your name on it.” He produced it, wrapped in tissue paper, out of his pocket, and Peter took it without a word. It was a silver match-box with “Peter Westcott from his friend Cardillac,” and the month and the year printed on it.
“Thanks most awfully,” Peter said gruffly. “Jolly decent of you. Good-bye old man.”
They shook hands and avoided each other's eyes, and Cardillac had a sudden desire to fling the Grand Tour and the rest of it to the dogs and to come back for another year to Dawson's.
“Well, I must get back, got to be in library at four,” he said.
“I'm going to stop here a bit,” said Peter.
He watched Cards walk slowly down the hill and then he flung himself on his face and pursued with a vacant eye the efforts of an ant to climb a swaying blade of grass . . . he was there for a long time.
