Thus did Peter Rosmead quite quietly dispose of the biggest thing that had come into his life. And his mother, watching the firm set of his square chin, the invincible light in his eyes, gloried in his strength, and had not the smallest doubt that he would attain the desire of his heart.
Was any pang of disappointment hers? To every mother the moment when her son takes another woman to his heart is one of supreme pain. This is as inevitable as the law of life.
But Mrs. Rosmead desired her son to marry, and she had kept him at her side a long time.
"So Vivien will go up? Is she getting ready now?"
"I think so."
"Well, bring my writing-block and pencil, and I will write a message for Miss Mackinnon."
He obeyed her, but she did not show him what she wrote. Nor was he curious to see it. He had never in all his life known her to do the wrong thing or speak the wrong word.
She was a woman in whom grace was developed to a very high degree.
Vivien came in presently, her slender, graceful figure enveloped in its capacious coat of Harris tweed, and a small neat toque of green velvet crowning her beautiful head.
"Peter has been telling you, mother. Do you think it is the right thing for me to do--to go to Creagh, I mean? I confess to a little hesitation. I am so afraid of intruding on her. Even the pride of old Virginia must pale before that of Glenogle."