"Has he so many faults?" said John.
The doctor shook his head. "I'm mistaken if he won't turn out a chip of the old block. Though he's better-looking than his father, he's got Sir Timothy's very expression."
"He's turned out a gallant soldier, anyway," said John, cheerily.
"Don't croak, Blundell; we'll make a man of him yet."
"Please God you may, for his mother's sake," said the doctor; and he returned to his armchair.
John Crewys stood by the open French window, and drank in the refreshing breeze which fluttered the muslin curtains. His calm and thoughtful face was turned away from the doctor, who knew very well why John's gaze was so intent upon the group without.
"Shall I warn him, or shall I let it alone?" thought Blundell. "I suppose they have been waiting only for this. If that selfish cub objects, as he will—I feel very sure of that—will she be weak enough to sacrifice her happiness, or can I trust John Crewys? He looks strong enough to take care of himself, and of her."
He looked at John's decided profile, silhouetted against the curtain, and thought of Peter's narrow face. "Weak but obstinate," he muttered to himself. "Shrewd, suspicious eyes, but a receding chin. What chance would the boy have against a man? A man with strength to oppose him, and brains to outwit him. None, save for the one undoubted fact—the boy holds his mother's heart in the hollow of his careless hands."
There was a tremendous burst of cheering, no longer distant, and the band played louder.
Lady Mary came hurrying across the terrace. Weeping and agitated, and half blinded by her tears, she stumbled over the threshold of the window, and almost fell into John's arms. He drew her into the shadow of the curtain.
"John," she cried; she saw no one else. "Oh, I can't bear it! Oh,
Peter, Peter, my boy, my poor boy!"