But Peter was in no mind to brook interruption. He was burning to pour out his plans for her future, and his own.
"Wherever we may go, and whatever we may be doing," he said emotionally, "it will be a joy and a comfort to me to know that my dear old mother is always here. Taking care of the place and looking after the people, and waiting always to welcome me, with her old sweet smile on her dear old face."
Peter was not often moved to such enthusiasm, and he was almost overcome by his own eloquence in describing this beautiful picture.
Lady Mary was likewise overcome. She sank back once more in her cushioned corner, looking at him with a blank dismay that could not escape even his dull observation. How impossible it was to tell Peter, after all! How impossible he always made it!
"I know you must feel it just at first," he said anxiously; "but you—you can't expect to keep me all to yourself for ever."
She shook her head, and tried to smile.
He grew a little impatient. "After all," he said, "you must be reasonable, mother. Every one has to live his own life."
Then Lady Mary found words. A sudden rush of indignation—the pent-up feelings of years—brought the scarlet blood to her cheeks and the fire to her gentle, blue eyes.
"Every one—but me" she said, trembling violently.
"You!" said Peter, astonished.