The two men were vividly contrasted. Peter stood for youth—resilient, athletic, and eager. Wenderby as perfectly expressed the wisdom, tolerance, and disillusion of one who already had lived. He had just successfully finished a hard campaign in the country, and he was tired. The lines of his forehead were deeper to-night than he knew.
Lady Mary's cordial reception scattered Peter's vague misgiving. It restored to him the woman who, on the terrace at Highbury, had accepted his worship, thanked him, and understood.
"Your mother isn't here?" she said, as Peter found a chair.
"I could not persuade her."
"I must know her at once. Antony is quite positive about it."
"Antony is right," said Peter. "She is wonderful."
"Lord Wenderby is more fortunate than I am. He has seen her already."
"I'm afraid of her," said Wenderby. "She has that sort of silence which spoils my best conversation."
"You mustn't allow Lord Wenderby to frighten you." Peter paused, and added quite simply: "You will love my mother."