"And the stuffed birds, and the weasels, and the ferrets that I was so fond of when I was a little chap. You don't mean to say you've done away with those too?" cried Peter, wrathfully.
"They—they are in the gun-room," said Lady Mary. "It seemed such a—such—an appropriate place for them."
"I believe," said the canon, nervously, "that stuffing is no longer considered decorative. After all, why should we place dead animals in our sitting-rooms?"
He looked round with the anxious smile of the would-be peacemaker.
"They were very much worm-eaten, Peter," said Lady Mary. "But if you would like them brought back—"
Perhaps the pain in her voice penetrated even Peter's perception, for he glanced hastily towards her.
"It doesn't matter," he said magnanimously. "If you and my guardian decided they were rotten, there's an end of it. Of course I'd rather have things as they used to be; but after all this time, I expect there's bound to be a few changes." He turned from the contemplation of the hall to face his relatives squarely, with the air of an autocrat who had decreed that the subject was at an end.
"By-the-by," said Peter, "where is John Crewys? They told me he was stopping here."
"He will be in directly," said Lady Mary, "and Sarah Hewel ought to be here presently too. She is coming to luncheon."
"Sarah!" said Peter. "I should like to see her again. Is she still such a rum little toad? Always getting into scrapes, and coming to you for comfort?"