"You, at any rate," she urged him, "have learned to believe a little." She looked towards the hut on the terrace, and Peter followed her thoughts.
The trees stirred a moment, and laughter came from the open room. But these two heard only the voice of Eustace Haversham, and saw his lighted features vivid in memory. The last colour of the sunset was full upon her as she faced her uncle's empty place. Its emptiness to-night was an omen of the eternal emptiness to come. Her mouth quivered, and tears shone suddenly under her lids as she turned again to Peter.
"I believe he is worth the whole world," she said, and her voice broke.
Her tears seemed to remove every barrier. Peter saw in her eyes an appeal for an equal faith. She felt the drops on her cheek, and turned away into the shadow.
"I, too, believe," Peter deeply whispered.
Then he noticed how her hand lay unprotected upon the pedestal of the statue, vaguely delicate upon the hard metal.
He impulsively bent and touched it with his lips. She did not start or cry out, but turned again slowly towards him. She read in his eyes faith merely and dedication.
"I am glad you did that," she said in a level voice.
Then they went, as by consent, towards the lighted windows of the drawing-room.
Next morning, ten days before polling day at Sandhaven, Peter was summoned away by telegram to Hamingburgh. His uncle had suddenly been stricken seriously ill. Peter bade his friends a quick farewell and caught the first train from York.