"Your mother arranged this meeting," said Vivette in meditation.
"She must have recognised Miranda from the sketch," Peter explained.
"How did your mother know you would remember her?"
"She knows everything," said Peter simply.
Mrs. Paragon sat quietly with Haversham. Haversham had noticed Peter's strange behaviour, and Mrs. Paragon had already told him the whole tale. The dinner proceeded to an end, its essential currents moving beneath the surface. Miranda, with veiled eyes, admitted by no sign that they in the least affected her. But she was gradually flooded with a tide of happiness. She held it off, allowing it only to polish further the glitter of her surface.
Peter's crowning misery that night was the speeches. Atterbury, proposing him, was unaware of any need for discretion. He tactfully and wittily pinned the toast to his caricature, already famous, of Peter as the Pilgrim of Love. The table roared with delight, and, finding Peter's response lacking in conviction, was more delighted at this further proof that Atterbury's barbs had stuck.
At last the party broke up. Vivette had by that time carefully measured Miranda.
"This is good-bye, indeed," she said to Peter at parting. Peter had taken her home to the flat in Soho. His mother had gone with Atterbury and Miranda.
"I'm not sure that I shall go," answered Peter obtusely, thinking of his desolate voyage.