He listened to Major Gaisford’s jovial and richly embroidered anecdotes, and duly admired the infant Jimmy. Mrs. Gaisford was very amiable. She had grown plump and placid, and she was disposed to smile upon Peter. “You must come and stay with us at Chark instead of now,” she said graciously. “I was sorry your visit had to be put off, but this whole place does want painting so dreadfully, and my cousin Monty Ferguson’s offer of his house at Chark was too good to be wasted; so we’re really off tomorrow for a month. Do you know Monty at all? He swears Chark will be the golf-course of the future, and I’m sure he’s only lending us the house because he thinks James will be converted and go about cracking it up. But there it is, you must come down and see it for yourself—any time, you know. There’s lots of room. Just send a wire and come.” After lunch Peter asked Rose Ellen to walk across the moor with him. He could catch a train at Hastney Mere, and they could talk. They climbed the sandy lane together and when Rose Ellen had said three things without receiving any answer she looked sideways at Peter, beheld him wrapped in frowning silence, and spoke no more.
