"She is the woman I love," said John. "The woman I mean to make my wife."
He remained seated, silently waiting for Peter to imbibe and assimilate his words.
After a quick gasp of incredulous indignation, Peter, too, sat silent at his side.
John gave him time to recover before he spoke again.
"I hope," he said, very gently, "that when you have thought it over, you won't mind it so much. As it's going to be—it would be pleasanter if you and I could be friends. I think, later on, you may even perceive advantages in the arrangement—under the circumstances; when you have recovered from your natural regret in realizing that she must leave Barracombe—"
"It isn't that," said Peter, hoarsely. He felt he must speak; and he also desired, it must be confessed, to speak offensively, and relieve himself somewhat of the accumulated rage and resentment that was burning in his breast. "It's—it's simply"—he said, flushing darkly, and turning his face away from John's calm and friendly gaze—"that to me—to me, the idea is—ridiculous."
"Ah!" said John. He rose from the stone bench. A spark of anger came to him, too, as he looked at Peter, but he controlled his voice and his temper. "The time will come," he said, "when your imagination will be able to grasp the possibility of love between a man in the forties and a woman in the thirties. At least, for your sake, I hope it will."
"Why for my sake?" said Peter.
"Because I should be sorry," said John, "if you died young."