But Peter had no answering smile. His face had changed, and there was that in his eyes which gave Hemingway pause.
"Why, old chap, I was merely joking!" he began, with real concern.
"Peter!" said the woman, softly. "You have had—a disappointment? But, my dear boy, you are so very young. Don't take it too much to heart, Peter. At your age nothing is final, really." And she smiled at him.
A flush suffused the young man's forehead. He felt shamed and miserable. He couldn't flaunt his price-tag before these unbuyable souls whose beautiful and true marriage was based upon love, and sympathy, and mutual ideals! He couldn't rattle his chains, or explain Anne Champneys. He couldn't, indeed, force himself to speak of her at all. The thing was bad enough, but to talk about it—No! He lifted troubled eyes.
"I am afraid—in my case—it is final," he said, in a low voice. And after a pause, in a louder tone: "Yes—please understand—it is final."
"Oh, Peter dear, I'm sorry! But—"
"You're talking nonsense. Why, you're barely twenty-one!" protested Hemingway. "Much water must flow under the bridge, Peter, before you can say of anything: it is final. You've got a long life ahead of you to—"
"Work in," finished Peter. "Yes, I know that. I have my chance to work. That is enough." At that his head went up.
Mrs. Hemingway puckered her brows. She leaned toward him, her eyes lighting up.
"Peter!" said she, mischievously, her cheek dimpling. "Peter, aren't you rather leaving the Red Admiral out of your calculations?"