“Fortitude—Courage. Clinging on with your nails, setting your teeth.”
Peter was surprised at the man's earnestness. The two of them sitting there in that lonely deserted little conservatory were instantly aware of some common experience.
Maradick put his hand on Peter's knee.
“Westcott, you're young, but I know the kind of thing you mean. Believe me that it's no silly nonsense to talk of the Devil—the Devil is as real and personal as you and I, and he's got his agents in every sort and kind of place. If he once gets his net out for you then you'll want all your courage. I know,” he went on sinking his voice, “there was a time I had once in Cornwall when I was brought pretty close to things of that sort—it doesn't leave you the same afterwards. There's a place down in Cornwall called Treliss....”
“Treliss!” Peter almost shouted. “Why that's where I come from. I was born there—that's my town—”
Before Maradick could reply Bobby Galleon burst into the conservatory. “Oh, there you are—I've been looking for you everywhere. How are you, Maradick? Look here, Peter, you've got to come down to supper with us. We've got a table—Alice, Clare, Millicent, Percival, Tony Gale and his wife and you and I—and—one other—an old friend of yours, Peter.”
“An old friend?” said Peter, getting up from his chair and trying to look as though he were not furious with Bobby for the interruption.
“Yes—you'll never guess, if I give you a hundred guesses—it's most exciting—come along—”
Peter was led away. As he moved through the dazzling, noisy rooms he was conscious that there, in the quiet, dark little conservatory, Maradick was sitting, motionless, seeing Treliss.