"There are several places—London," she faltered.
"London!" said Peter; "but my father had a perfect horror of London.
He wouldn't have liked it at all."
"He belonged—to the old school," said Lady Mary, meekly; "to younger people, perhaps—an occasional change might be pleasant and profitable."
"Oh! to younger people," said Peter, in mollified tones. "I don't say I shall never run up to London. I dare say I shall be obliged, now and then, on business. Not often though. I hate absentee landlords, as my father did."
"Travelling is said to open the mind," murmured Lady Mary, weakly pursuing her argument, as she supposed it to be.
"I've seen enough of the world now to last me a lifetime," said Peter, in sublime unconsciousness that any fate but his own could be in question.
"I didn't think you would have changed so much as this, Peter," she said, rather dismally. "You used to find this place so dull."
"I know I used," Peter agreed; "but oh, mother, if you knew how sick I've been now and then with longing to get back to it! I made up my mind a thousand times how it should all be when I came home again; and that you and me would be everything in the world to each other, as you used to wish when I was a selfish boy, thinking only of getting away and being independent. I'm afraid I used to be rather selfish, mother?"
"Perhaps you were—a little," said Lady Mary.
"You will never have to complain of that again," said Peter.