Cyprian had never met the exiled Peter, on the occasion of whose swift banishment he had first recognized a kindred spirit in the Ferlie, white-faced and dumb, presented to him in the Carmichaels' drawing-room with the motherly rebuke, "And, Cyprian, this is the one I intended to ask you to be godfather to, only Robin put me off, insisting that you would not know what the term meant."
He visualized Peter, after winning his sister's confidence, as a wiry mortal of nine summers, permanently unlaced boots and an enquiring expression; this last suggesting a soul too perfectly in tune, if not with the Infinite, at least with the Infinitely Annoying, as connected with problems of Eternal Research, for the peace of mind of those in charge of him.
"Isn't it funny, when you come to think of it"—thus Mrs. Carmichael when Cyprian had gone—"that a woman's 'No' can alter the whole course of a man's life?"
"Not nearly so thoroughly as can a woman's 'Yes,' believe me. He is jolly well out of that one."
"The trouble is that you can't persuade him of it. Such an ideal situation for him, Robin. A free house and garden..."
"Nice Society," went on Robin, a little grimly, "church bells within ear-shot, so that one can imbibe atmospheric religion from an arm-chair, and the golf-links closed on Sunday. But you're right: it would have suited him—in the end. If ever I saw an Oxford don in embryo, it is Cyprian."
"He's so Nice," his wife lingered over the word. "One realizes at once how high-principled..."
"Oh, he's all that ... and he listens to the Abbey organ regularly."
"Simple and obtuse," Linda Carmichael continued. "And she's quite heartless. Do you know, Robin, sometimes she behaves almost as if she were not a lady."
Mrs. Carmichael couldn't understand why Robin sniggered at this superlative condemnation.