"Oh, I'm sorry--I'm sorry! . . . I--I never thought of that when I asked you to be a pal to her." Her voice shook uncontrollably.

He smiled again--the game half-weary, half-tenderly amused smile which was so characteristic.

"You needn't be sorry," he said, speaking with great gentleness. "I shall never be sorry that I love her. It's only that just now she doesn't need me. That's why I won't come down to Mallow."

"Not need you!"

"No. The man she needs has come back. I can't tell you _how_ I know--you'll have to trust me over that--but I do know that Maryon Rooke has come back to her and that he is the man who means everything to her."

Kitty's brows drew together as she pondered the question whether Peter were right or wrong in his opinion.

"I don't think you're right," she said at last in tones of conviction.

"I don't believe she 'needs' him at all. I dare-say he still fascinates her. He has"--she hesitated--"a curious sort of fascination for some women. And the sooner Nan is cured of it the better."

"I've done--all that I could," he answered briefly.

"Don't I know that?" Kitty slipped her arm into his. "You've been splendid! That's just why I want you to come down to us in Cornwall."

"But if Rooke is there--"

"Maryon?" She paused, then went on with a chilly little note of haughtiness in her voice. "I certainly don't propose to invite Maryon Rooke to Mallow."

"Still, you can't prevent him from taking a summer holiday at St.

Wennys."

St. Wennys was a small fishing village on the Cornish coast, barely a mile away from Mallow Court.

"He won't come--I'm sure!" a.s.serted Kitty. "Sir Robert Burnham lives quite near there--he's Maryon's G.o.dfather--and they hate each other like poison."

"Why?"

"Oh, old Sir Robert was Maryon's guardian till he came of age, and then, when Maryon decided to go in for painting, he presented him with the small patrimony to which he was ent.i.tled and declined to have anything further to do with him--either financially or otherwise.

Simply chucked him. Maryon went through some very bad times, I believe, in his early days," continued Kitty, striving to be just.

"That's the one thing I respect him for. He stuck to it and won through to where he stands now."

"It shows he's got some grit, anyway," agreed Peter. "And do you think"--smiling--"that that's the type of man who's going to give in over winning the woman he wants? . . . Should I, if things were different--if I were free?"

Kitty laughed reluctantly.

"You? No. But you're not Maryon Rooke. He could never be the kind of lover you would be, my Peter. With him, his art counts first of anything in the wide world. And that's why I don't think he'll come to St. Wennys. He's in love with Nan--as far as his type can be in love--but he's not going to tie himself up with her. So he'll keep away."

She paused, then went on urgently:

"Peter dear, we shall all of us hate it so if you don't come down to Cornwall with us this year. Look, if Rooke doesn't show up down there, so that we know he's only philandering with Nan and has no real intention of marrying her, will you come then?"

He still hesitated. And all at once Kitty saw the other side of the picture--Peter's side. She wanted him at Mallow--they all wanted him.

But she had not thought of the matter from his point of view. Now that she knew he cared for Nan she recognised that it would be a bitterly hard thing for him to be under the same roof with the woman he loved, yet from whom he was barred by every law of G.o.d and man, and who, as far as Kitty knew, regarded him solely in the light of a friend. Even if Nan were growing to care for Peter--the bare possibility flashed through Kitty's mind only to be instantly dismissed--even so, it would serve only to complicate matters still further.

When she spoke again it was in a very subdued tone of voice and with an accent of keen self-reproach.

"Peter, I'm a selfish pig! All this time I've never been thinking of you--only of ourselves. I believe it's your own fault"--with a rather quavering laugh. "You've taught us all to expect so much from you--and to give so little."

Mallory made a quick gesture of dissent.

"Oh, yes, you have," she insisted. "You're always giving and we just--take! I never thought how hard a thing I was asking when I begged you to come down to Mallow while Nan was with us. It was sheer brutality to suggest it." Her voice trembled. "Please forgive me, Peter!"

"My dear, there's nothing to forgive. You know I love Nan, that she'll always be the one woman for me. But you know, too, that there's Celia, and that Nan and I can never be more to each other than we are now--just friends. I'm not going to forfeit that friendship--unless it happens it would be best for Nan that we should forget we were even friends. And I won't say it doesn't hurt to be with her. But there are some hurts that one would rather bear than lose what goes with them."

The grave voice, with the undertone of pain running through it, ceased.

Kitty's tears were flowing unchecked.

"Oh, Peter, Peter!" she cried sobbingly. "Why aren't you free? You and Nan are just made for each other."

He winced a little, as though she had laid her finger on a raw spot.

"Hush, Kitten," he said quietly. "Don't cry so! These things happen and we've got to face them."

Kitty subsided into a chair and mopped her eyes.

"It's wicked--wicked that you should be tied up to a woman like Celia--a woman who's got no more soul than this chair!"--banging the chair-arm viciously.

"And you mustn't say things like that, either," chided Peter, smiling at her very kindly.

As he spoke there came the sound of footsteps, and the voices of Barry and Penelope could be heard as they approached Kitty's den, by way of the corridor.

"I owe you a bob, then," Barry was saying in his easy, good-natured tones. "You beat me fair and square that last game, Penny."

Kitty sprang up, suddenly conscious of her tear-stained face.

"Oh, I can't see them---not now! Peter, stop them from coming here!"

A moment later Mallory came out of the room and met the approaching couple before they had reached the door.

"I was just coming to say good-bye to Kitty," began Penelope. "I'd no idea the time had flown so quickly."

"Charm of my society," murmured Barry.

Peter's face was rather white and set, but he managed to reply in a voice that sounded fairly normal.

"Kitty's very f.a.gged and she's going to rest for a few minutes before dressing for dinner. She asked me to say good-bye to you for her, Penelope."

"Then it falls to my lot to speed the parting guest," said Barry cheerily. "Peter, old son, can the car take you on anywhere after dropping Penny at the Mansions?"

Peter was conscious of a sudden panic. He had just come from baring the rawness of his wound to Kitty, and, gently as her fingers had probed, even the kind hands of a friend may sometimes hurt excruciatingly. He felt that at the moment he could not endure the companionship of any living soul.

"No, thanks," he answered jerkily. "I'll walk."