Lord Evelyn acknowledged this admission with a slight inclination of the head.
"Nothing whatever, sir."
So there was silence, till Peter came in, pale and sickly and influenzaish, but with a smile for Lord Evelyn. It was extraordinarily nice of Lord Evelyn, he thought, to have come all the way to Brook Street in the rain to see him.
Lord Evelyn looked at him queerly, intently, out of his short-sighted eyes as they shook hands.
"I wish to talk to you," he remarked, with meaning.
Hilary took the hint, looked proud, said, "I see that my room is preferred to my company," and went away.
When he had gone, Peter said, "Do sit down," but Lord Evelyn took no notice of that. He had come to see Peter in his need, but he had not forgiven him, and he would remain standing in his house. Peter had once hurt him so badly that the mere sight of him quickened his breath and flushed his cheek. He tapped his cane impatiently against his grey spats.
"You're ill," he said, accusingly.
"Oh, I've only had flu," said Peter; "I'm all right now."
"You're ill," Lord Evelyn repeated. "Don't contradict me, sir. You're ill; you're in want; and you're bringing up a baby on insufficient diet. What?"