peter's room was the smallest and highest in the boarding-house. it was extremely small and high, and just above the bed was a ceiling that got hot through and through like a warming-pan, so that the room in summer was like a little oven below. what air there was came in came through a small skylight above the wash-stand; through this also came the rain when it rained; the dirtiest rain peter had ever seen.

it was not raining this morning, when peter, after passing a very warm night, heard the bells beginning. a great many bells begin on sunday mornings in this part of london, no doubt in any part of london, but here they seem particularly loud. the boarding-house was in a small street close to a large english church and a small roman church; and the english church had its first mass at seven, and the roman church at six, and each had another an hour later, and bells rang for all. so peter lay and listened.

sometimes he went with hilary and peggy to the roman mass. that pleased peggy, who had hopes of some day converting him. and occasionally he went alone to the english mass, and he liked that better, on the whole, because the little roman church was rather ugly. peter didn't think he would ever join the roman church, even to please peggy. it certainly seemed to him in some ways the most finely expressive of the churches; but equally certainly it often expressed the wrong things, and (like all other churches) left whole worlds unexpressed. and so much of its expression had a crudity.... it kept saying too little and too much, and jarring.

anyhow, this morning peter, who had a headache after his warm night, lay and heard the bells and thought what a nice day sunday was, with no office to go to. instead, he would take rhoda on the river in the morning, and go and see lucy in the afternoon, and probably have tea there. when peter went to see lucy he always had a faint hope that urquhart would perhaps walk in, and that they would all be friendly and happy together in the old way, for one afternoon. it hadn't happened yet. peter hadn't seen urquhart since they had left venice, two months ago. sunday was his day for going to see lucy, and it wasn't urquhart's day, perhaps because urquhart was so often away for week-ends; though last sunday, indeed, he had just left the hopes' house when peter arrived.

lucy, when peter had told her his tale of dishonour two months ago, had said, half laughing at him, "how stupid of all of you!" she hadn't realised quite how much it mattered. lucy judged everything by a queer, withdrawn standard of her own.

peter had agreed that it had been exceedingly stupid of all of them. once, since then, when he heard that urquhart had returned and had seen lucy, he had asked her, "does he dislike us all very much? is he quite too disgusted to want to see me again?"

lucy had wrinkled her forehead over it.

"he's not angry," she had said. "you can fancy, can't you? merely—merely ..."

"detached," said peter, who had more words, and always expressed what lucy meant; and she nodded. "just that, you know." she had looked at him wistfully, hoping he wasn't minding too horribly much.

"it's stupid of him," she had said, using her favourite adjective, and had added, dubiously, "come and meet him sometime. you can't go on like this; it's too silly."

peter had shaken his head. "i won't till he wants to. i don't want to bother him, you see."

"he does want to," lucy had told him. "of course he does. only he thinks you don't. that's what's so silly."

they had left it there for the present. some day peter meant to walk into denis's rooms and say, "don't be stupid. this can't go on." but the day hadn't come yet. if it had been denis who had done the shady thing and was in penury and dishonour thereby, it would have been so simple. but that was inconceivable; such things didn't happen to denis; and as it was it was not simple.

peter got out of his hot bed on to his hot floor, and made for the bathroom. there was only one bathroom in the boarding-house, but there was no great competition for it, so peter had his bath in peace, and sang a tune in it as was his custom, and came back to his hot room and put on his hot clothes (his less tidy clothes, because it was the day of joy), and came down to breakfast at 9:25.

most of the other boarders had got there before him. it was a mixed boarding-house, and contained at the moment two gentlemen besides hilary and peter, and five ladies besides peggy and rhoda. they were on the whole a happy and even gay society, and particularly on sundays.

peggy, looking up from the tea-cups, gave peter a broad smile, and rhoda gave him a little subdued one, and peter looked pleased to see everyone; he always did, even on mondays.

"i'm sure your brother hasn't a care in the world," an envious lady boarder had once said to peggy; "he's always so happy-looking."

this was the lady who was saying, as peter entered, "and my mother's last words were, 'find elizabeth dean's grave.' elizabeth dean was an author, you know—oh, very well known, i believe. she treated my mother and me none too well; didn't stand by us when she should have—but we won't say anything about that now. anyhow, it was a costly funeral—forty pounds and eight horses—and my mother hadn't an idea where she was laid. so she said, 'find elizabeth dean's grave,' just like that. and the strange thing was that in the first churchyard i walked into, in a little village down in sussex, there was a tombstone, 'elizabeth dean, 65. the lord gave and the lord hath taken away.' wasn't that queer, now? so i went straight and...."

"the woman's a fool," muttered the gentleman next peter, a cynical-faced commercial traveller. peter had heard the remark from him frequently before, and did not feel called upon to reply to it.

but the tale of elizabeth dean was interrupted by a lady of a speculative habit of mind.

"now i want to ask you all, should one put up a tombstone to the departed? i've been having quite a kick-up with my sisters about it lately. hadn't one better spend the money on the living? what do you think, miss matthews?"

miss matthews said she liked to see a handsome headstone.

"after all, one honours them that way. it's all one can do for them, isn't it."

"oh, miss matthews, all?" several ladies were shocked. "what about one's prayers for the dead?"

"i don't pray for the dead," said miss matthews, who was a protestant, and did not attend the large church in the next street. "i do not belong to the romish religion. i'm not saying anything against those who do, but i consider that those who do not should confine their prayers to those who may require them in this troubled world, and not waste them upon those whose fate we have every reason to believe is settled once and for all."

the lady who always quarrelled with her on this subject rose to the occasion. peggy, soothing them down, said mechanically, "there now.... three lumps, peter?... micky, one doesn't suck napkin rings; naughty."

peter was appealed to by his neighbour, who knew that he occasionally attended st. austin's church. people were always drawing him into theological discussions, which he knew nothing at all about.

"mr. peter, isn't that against all reason, to stop praying for our friends merely because they've passed through the veil?"

"yes," peter agreed. "i should have thought so." but all he really thought was that beyond the veil was such darkness that he never looked into it, and that it was a pity people should argue on a holiday.

"now," said someone else, wishing to be a peace-maker, "i'm afraid you'll all say i'm very naughty, but i attend the early mass at st. austin's, high mass at the roman church"—she nodded at peggy—"and the city temple in the evening"—she smiled at the commercial traveller, who was believed to be a new theologian. "aren't i naughty, now?"

mademoiselle, the french governess, came down at this point, saying she had had a dream about a hat with pink roses. the peace-making lady said, "bad little thing, she's quite frisky this morning." hilary, to whom mademoiselle was the last straw, left the room.

rhoda followed his example. she had sat very silent, as usual, over breakfast, eating little. peter came out with her, and followed her into the sitting-room, where she stood listlessly playing with the tassel of the blind. rhoda was thinner than ever, and floppier, and took even less pains to be neat. she had left off her beads, but had not replaced them by a collar.

peter said, "are you coming out with me this morning?"

she replied, listless and uncaring, "if you like."

"we might go," said peter, "and see if the new english art club is open on sunday mornings. and then we'll go on the river. shall we?"

she assented again. "very well."

a moment later she sighed, and said wearily, "how it does go on, day after day, doesn't it!"

peter said it did.

"on and on," said rhoda. "same stupid people saying the same stupid old things. i do wonder they don't get tired. they don't know anything, do they?"

rhoda's hankering was still after great minds.

"they're funny sometimes," suggested peter tentatively; but she was blind to that.

"they don't know a thing. and they talk and talk, so stupidly. about religion—as if one religion was different from another. and about dead people, as if they knew all about them and what they were doing. they seem to make sure souls go on—miss matthews and miss baker were both sure of that. but how can they tell? some people that know lots more than them don't think so, but say ... say it's nothingness."

peter recognised guy vyvian's word. rhoda would have said "nothing to follow."

"people say," he agreed, "quite different things, and none of them know anything about it, of course. one needn't worry, though."

"you never worry," she accused him, half fretfully. "but," she added, "you don't preach, either. you don't say things are so when you can't know.... do you think anything about that, peter—about going on? i don't believe you do."

peter reflected. "no," he said. "i don't believe i do. i can't look beyond what i can see and touch; i don't try. i expect i'm a materialist. the colours and shapes of things matter so awfully much; i can't imagine anything of them going on when those are dead. i rather wish i could. some people that know lots more than me do, and i think it's splendid of them and for them. they're very likely right, too, you know."

rhoda shook her head. "i believe it's nothingness."

peter felt it a dreary subject, and changed it.

"well, let's come and look at pictures. and i can't imagine nothingness, can you? we might have lunch out somewhere, if you don't mind."

so they went out and looked at pictures, and went up the river in a steamer, and had lunch out somewhere, and rhoda grew very gentle and more cheerful, and said, "i didn't mean to be cross to you, peter. you're ever so good to me," and winked away tears, and the gentle peter, who hated no one, wished that some catastrophe would wipe guy vyvian off the face of the earth and choke his memory with dust. whenever one thought rhoda was getting rather better, the image of vyvian, who knew such a lot more than most people, came up between her and the world she ought to have been enjoying, and she had a relapse.

peter and rhoda came home together, and rhoda said, "thank you ever so much for taking me. i've liked it ever so," and went up to her room to read poetry. rhoda read a good deal of the work of our lesser contemporary poets; vyvian had instilled that taste into her.

peter, about tea-time, went to see lucy. he went by the piccadilly tube, from holborn to south kensington—(he was being recklessly extravagant to-day, but it was a holiday after all, and very hot).

peter climbed the stairs to the hopes' drawing-room and opened the door, and what he had often dreamed of had come about, for denis was there, only in a strange, undreamed-of way that made him giddy, so he stood quite still for a moment and looked.

he would have turned away and gone before they saw him; but they had seen him, and lucy said, "oh, peter—come in," and denis said, "oh ... hullo," and held out his hand.

peter, who was dizzily readjusting certain rather deeply-rooted ideas, said, "how do you do? i've come ... i've come to tea, you know."

"'course you have," said lucy. then she looked up into peter's face and smiled, and slipped her hand into his. "how nice; we're three again."

"yes," said peter.

"but i must go," said urquhart. "i'm awfully sorry, but i've got to meet a man.... i shall see you some time, shan't i, margery? why don't you ever come and see me, you slacker? well, good-bye. good-bye, lucy. lunch to-morrow; don't forget."

he was gone.

peter sat on the coal-scuttle, and lucy gave him tea, with three lumps in it.

"thank you," said peter.

lucy looked at him. "you did know, didn't you? all this time, i mean? i didn't tell you, because i never tell you things, of course. you always know them. and this particularly. you did know it, peter? but when you came in you looked ... you looked as if you didn't."

"i was stupid," said peter. "i ought to have known."

looking back, he saw that he certainly ought. he certainly must have, only that his vision had been blocked by a certain deeply-rooted idea, that was as old as his growth. he had assumed, without words. he had thought that she too had assumed; neither had ever required words to elucidate their ideas one to the other; they had kept words for the other things, the jolly, delightful things of the foreground.

"how long?" asked peter, drinking his tea to warm him, for, though it was so hot outside, he felt very cold in here.

she told him. "oh, since the beginning, i think. i thought you knew, peter.... we didn't say anything about it till quite lately. only we both knew."

she came and sat on the rug by his side, and slipped her hand into his. "are you glad, peter? please, peter, be glad."

"i will presently," said peter, with one of his fainter smiles. "let me just get used to it, and i will."

she whispered, stroking his hand, "we've always had such fun, peter, we three. haven't we? let's go on having it."

"yes," said peter. "let's."

he was vague still, and a little dizzy, but he could smile at her now. after all, wasn't it splendid? denis and lucy—the two people he loved best in the world; so immeasurably best that beside them everyone else was no class at all.

he sat very still on the coal-scuttle, making a fresh discovery about himself. he had known before that he had a selfish disposition, though he had never thought about it particularly; but he hadn't known that it was in him to grudge denis anything—denis, who was consciously more to him than anyone else in the world. lucy was different; she was rooted in the very fibre of his being; it wasn't so much that he consciously loved her as that she was his other self. well, hadn't he long since given to denis, to use as he would, all the self he had?

but the wrench made him wince, and left him chilly and grown old.

"it's perfectly splendid for both of you," said peter, himself again at last. "and it was extraordinarily stupid of me not to see it before.... do you think denis really meant i could go and see him? i think i will."

"'course he did. 'course you will. go to-morrow. but now it's going to be just you and me and tea. and honey sandwiches—oh, peter!" her eyes danced at him, because it was such a nice world. he came off the coal-scuttle and made himself comfortable in a low chair near the honey sandwiches.

"will you and denis try always to have them when i come to tea with you? i do love them so. have you arranged when it is to be, by the way?"

"no. father won't want it to be for ages—he won't like it to be at all, of course, because denis isn't poor or miserable or revolutionary. but felicity has done so nicely for him in that way (lawrence is getting into horrid rows in poland, you know) that i think i've a right to someone happy and clean, don't you?... and denis wants it to be soon. so i suppose it will be soon."

"sure to be," peter agreed.

the room was full of roses; their sweetness was exuberant, intoxicating; not like lucy, who usually had small, pale, faint flowers.

"isn't it funny," she said, "how one thinks one can't be any happier, and then suddenly something happens inside one, and one sees everything new. i used to think things couldn't be brighter and shine more—but now they glitter like the sun, all new."

"i expect so," said peter.

then she had a little stab of remorse; for peter had been turned out of the place of glittering things, and moved in a grey and dusty world among things no one could like.

"'tis so stupid that your work is like that," she said, with puckered forehead. "i wish you could find something nice to do, peter dear."

"oh, i'm all right," said peter. "and there are all the nice things which aren't work, just the same. rhoda and i went a ride in a steamer this morning. and the sun was shining on the water—rather nice, it was. even rhoda grew a little brighter to see it. poor rhoda; the boarders do worry her so. i'm sorry about it; they don't worry me; i rather like them. some day soon i want you to come and see rhoda; it would cheer her up. i wish she liked things more. she's left off her bead necklace, you know. and she gets worried because people discuss the condition of 'the departed' (that's what we call them in the boarding-house). rhoda is sure they are in nothingness. i told her it was impossible for me to speculate on such things. how can one, you know? people have so much imagination. mine always sticks at a certain point and won't move on. could you do it if someone asked you to imagine denis, say, without his body?"

she wrinkled her forehead, trying to.

"denis's body matters a lot," was her conclusion. "i suppose it's because it's such a nice one."

"exactly," said peter. "people's bodies are nice. and when they're not i don't believe their minds are very nice either, so i'd rather not think about them. now i must go home."

it was very hot going home. london was a baked place, full of used air—peter's bedroom on a large scale. peter tried walking back, but found he was rather giddy, so got into a bus that took him the wrong way, a thing he often did. riding across london on the top of a bus is, of course, the greatest fun, even if it is the wrong bus. it makes up for almost any misfortune.

a few days later, after office hours, peter took urquhart at his word and went to his rooms. urquhart wasn't there, but would be in some time, he was told, so he sat and waited for him. it was a pleasant change after the boarding-house rooms. urquhart's things were nice to look at, without being particularly artistic. there was nothing dingy, or messy, or second-rate, or cheap. a graceful, careless expensiveness was the dominant note. an aroma of good tobacco hung about. peter liked to smell good tobacco, though he smoked none, good or bad.

urquhart came in at seven o'clock. he was going to dine somewhere at eight, so he hadn't much time.

"glad to see you, margery. quite time you came."

peter thought it nice of him to speak so pleasantly, seeming to ignore the last time peter had come to see him. he had been restrained and embarrassed then; now he was friendly, in the old casual, unemphasised way.

"how splendid about you and lucy," said peter. "a very suitable alliance, i call it."

"so do i," said denis, lighting a cigarette. "she's so much the nicest person i know. i perceived that the day you introduced us."

"of course," said peter. "you would."

"do you mind," said denis, "if i dress? we can talk meanwhile. rotten luck that i'm booked for dinner, or we could have had it together. you must come another day."

while he dressed he told peter that he was going to stand at the next elections. peter had known before that denis was ultimately destined to assist in the government of his country, and now it appeared that the moment had arrived.

"do you really take a side?" peter enquired. "or is it just a funny game?"

"oh, of course it's a game too; most things are. but, of course, one's a conservative and all that, if one's a person of sense. it's the only thing to be, you know."

"i rather like both sides," said peter. "they're both so keen, and so sure they're right. but i expect conservatives are the rightest, because they want to keep things. i hate people who want to make a mess and break things up and throw them away. besides, i suppose one couldn't really be on the same side as what's his name—that man everyone dislikes so—could one? or any of those violent people."

urquhart said one certainly couldn't. besides, there were free trade and home rule, and dozens of other things to be considered. obviously conservatives were right.

"i ought to get in," he said, "unless anything upsets it. the unionist majority last time was two hundred and fifty."

peter laughed. it was rather nice to hear denis talking like a real candidate.

when denis was ready, he said, "i'm dining in norfolk street. can you walk with me part of the way?"

peter said it was on the way to brook street, where he lived. denis displayed no interest in brook street. as far as he intended to cultivate peter's acquaintance, it was to be as a unit, detached from his disgraceful relatives. peter understood that. as he hadn't much expected to be cultivated again at all, he was in good spirits as he walked with denis to norfolk street. no word passed between them as to peter's past disgrace or present employment; denis had an easy way of sliding lightly over embarrassing subjects.

they parted, and denis dined in norfolk street with a parliamentary secretary, and peter supped in brook street with the other boarders.