She did not answer. She rose and looked out of the window, and as Peter rose and stood beside her, she lifted one hand to his shoulder. There was something ineffably gracious in the gesture. She seemed to be making it all up to him. “Such a patched life, Peter,” she murmured. “You can’t blame him for not having wanted me to come.”
“Oh, he didn’t want you to come?”
She hesitated for an instant. “No. And now I must go.”
“Now?” he asked stupidly.
“Oh, yes, at once. I shan’t have time to dine with you.” She looked helplessly about for a scarf that she had thrown down.
“But no!” Peter broke out. “It’s preposterous. To come like this and go like this! Your train doesn’t go for hours—if you will go to-night.”
“But I haven’t arranged for it. I haven’t packed.”
“Why, you haven’t unpacked!” he cried.
“Oh, I think Frances may have. And I mustn’t fail to get off. There are the tickets to get, too. Peter, I must go.” She spoke as if to delay were unspeakable treason; and, as she spoke, she turned to cross the room to the door.
“I say,” said Peter, standing squarely in her way, “why did you come? You shan’t go without telling me that.” It wasn’t the way to speak to one’s mother, but she had chosen to discard the maternal code.