"Oh yes, I remember," said Lady Mary; and she rose from the sofa.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked Peter. "I haven't vexed you, have I?"
She turned impetuously and threw her arms round him as he stood by the hearth, gazing down upon her in bewilderment.
"Vexed with my boy, my darling, my only son, on the very day when God has given him back to me?" she cried passionately. "My poor wounded boy, my hero! Oh no, no! But I want only love from you to-day, and no reproaches, Peter."
"Why, I wasn't dreaming of reproaching you, mother." He hesitated.
"Only you're a bit different from what I expected—that's all."
"Have I disappointed you?"
"No, no! Only I—well, I thought I might find you changed, but in a different way," he said, half apologetically. "Perhaps older, you know, or—or sadder."
Lady Mary's white face flushed scarlet from brow to chin; but Peter, occupied with his monocle, observed nothing.
"I'd prepared myself for that," he said, "and to find you all in black. And—"
"I threw off my mourning," she murmured, "the very day I heard you were coming home." She paused, and added hurriedly, "It was very thoughtless. I'm sorry; I ought to have thought of your feelings, my darling."