"You see," he said, "Sarah is—not like other girls."
"Of course not," said his mother.
She controlled her impatience, reminding herself that Peter was very young, and that he had never been in love before.
"She's a kind of—of queen," said Peter, dreamily. "I only wish you could have seen what it was in London."
"I can imagine it," said Lady Mary.
"No, you couldn't. I hadn't an idea what she would be there, until I went to London and saw for myself," said Peter, who measured everybody's imagination by his own.
"You see," he explained "my position here, which seems so important to you and the other people round here, and used to seem so important to me—is—just nothing at all compared to what has been cast at her feet, as it were, over and over again, for her to pick up if she chose. And this house," said Peter, glancing round and shaking his head—"this house, which seems so beautiful to you now it's all done up, if you'd only seen the houses she's accustomed to staying at. Tintern Castle, for instance—"
"I was born in a greater house than Tintern Castle, Peter," said Lady
Mary, gently.
"Oh, of course. I'm saying nothing against Ferries," said Peter, impatiently. "But you only lived there as a child. A child doesn't notice."
"Some children don't," said Lady Mary, with that faint, wondering smile which hid her pain from Peter, and would have revealed it so clearly to John.