There was a long silence.
Peter said at last: "Are you tired, dear? Would you like to go and lie down?"
She came suddenly up from the deep water of her own thoughts.
"Oh, you want to get rid of me. . . ." She got up slowly. "Well, I'll go."
"No," he answered eagerly. "If you'll lie down on this sofa I'll make it comfortable for you. Then Harry shall tell us what he's been doing."
She stood, her hands on her hips, her body swaying ever so slightly.
"Tum-te-tiddledy . . . Tum-te-tiddledy. Poor little thing——! Was it ill? Must it be fussed over and have cushions and be made to lie down? If you're ever ill," she said to Henry, "don't you let Peter nurse you. He'll fuss the life out of you. He's a regular old woman. He always was. He hasn't changed a bit. Fuss, fuss—fuss, fuss, fuss. Oh! he's very kind, Peter is, so thoughtful. Well, why shouldn't I stay? I haven't seen so many new faces in the last few days that a new one isn't amusing. When did you first meet Peter?"
"Oh some while ago now," said Henry.
"Have you read his books?"
"Yes."