"I really don't mean that," said Peter, genuinely grieved.
"Then I'm afraid you don't mean anything at all."
Lady Mary was clearly amused. Peter miserably looked at her, looked at his plate, and then heard himself say:
"Why am I such a solemn ass?"
"Who says that?"
"I say it myself," said Peter.
Lady Mary looked swiftly at his ingenuous face, in which exaggerated abasement struggled with a hope that she would reassure him. Her amusement was curiously shot with affection.
"You oughtn't to have told me this so soon," she said, smiling at him in the friendliest way. "You see I don't yet know you well enough to contradict you. It would be rude."
"Let me get you another sausage," said Peter, feeling a little better.
As he brought her the food he saw her more familiarly. Last night in her amazing dress she had seemed fragile and elaborate—all woman and social creature. But this morning he saw just a friendly girl, plainly suited in brown tweed, accessible and soothing. Now he really saw what she was like. He discreetly admired her hair and expressive eyes, her slender features and delicate complexion. She spoke on a clear note, level and quiet, suggesting that her ideas and feelings were regular and securely in leash. The music of her voice was vibrant but very sure. It declared a perfect balance, the voice of a woman who would not suffer to appear in any of her personal tones or gestures anything which could not beautifully be expressed.