"Very well indeed" said Miss Crewys, with emphasis that seemed to imply Lady Mary was better than she had any need to be.
"I have never," said the canon, with a nervous side-glance at Peter, "seen her look so well, nor so—so lovely, nor so—so brilliant. Only your return was needed to complete—her happiness."
Peter looked at the canon through his newly acquired eyeglass with some slight surprise.
"Well," he said, "I wouldn't telegraph. I wanted to slip home quietly, that's the fact; or I knew the place would be turned upside down to receive me."
"The people are preparing a royal welcome for you," said the canon, warmly. "Banners, music, processions, addresses, and I don't know what."
"That's awful rot!" said Peter. "Tell them I hate banners and music and addresses, and everything of the kind."
"No, no, my dear boy," said the canon, in rather distressed tones. "Don't say that, Peter, pray. You must think of their feelings, you know. There's hardly one of them who hasn't sent somebody to the war; son or brother or sweetheart. And all that's left for—for those who stay behind—not always the least hard thing to do for a patriot, Peter—is to honour, as far as they can, each one who returns. They work off some of their accumulated feelings that way, you know; and in their rejoicings they do not forget those who, alas! will never return any more."
There was a pause; and Peter remained silent, embarrassed by the canon's emotion, and not knowing very well how to reply.
"There, there," said the canon, saving him the trouble; "we can discuss it later. You are thinking of your mother now."
As he spoke, they all heard Lady Mary's voice in the corridor above. She was humming a song, and as she neared the open staircase the words of her song came very distinctly to their ears—