And again: “We can’t quarrel really,” laughed Peter, “because of your grandmother. One would hear nothing but: ‘You never ask that charming Peter Kyndersley to tea, chèrie, and you were once so fond of her.’...”
Well, that will have to be gone through as well.
The table is one blaze and glitter; the light falling on the Salviati vases; wine trembling and reflecting in the long-stemmed glasses; vivid splashes of fruit and flowers; flash of epigram from one lip to another. The Marchese is in great form to-night.... “Oh, là là!” and peals of laughter—
... Peter ... Peter....
The other two will not miss the games so intensely; they had played because it was their nature to play, as now they loved because it was their nature to love. But Merle had played for all her wasted years of Château and Convent; played for the prim little maiden with her toes turned out, who hung in a frame on the wall of the boudoir; played for all the children of all the world who had not the chance to play enough....
“But you are grown-up. Grown-ups cannot play.”
“We did! we did!”
“Are you sure? Were they playing—all the time?”
Had they indeed ever played, all three of them together? Yes; Merle saw clearly now when the change had occurred; when the pendulum, vibrating equally between herself and Peter, had swung completely over. It was after the April night when Stuart had come to her in his trouble, and she had given him comfort.
“But he asked for it—I only gave him what he asked for.”