It was Hilary who began to talk, and he talked about Cheriton, his
nervous voice pitched on a high note of complaint.

"I do intensely dislike that man. The sort of person I've no use for, you
know. So horribly on the spot; such sharp, unsoftened manners. All the
terrible bright braininess of the Yankee combined with the obstreperous
energy of the Philistine Briton. His mother is a young American, about to
be married for the third time. The sort of exciting career one would
expect from a parent of the delightful Jim. I cannot imagine why Lord
Evelyn, who is a person of refinement, encourages him. Really, you know!"

He grew very plaintive over it. Peter really did not wonder.

Peter's subconscious mind registered a dim impression that this was
defensive talk, to fill the silence. Hilary was a nervous person, easily
agitated. Probably the evening had agitated him. But he was no good at
defence. His complaint of Jim Cheriton broke weakly on an unsteady laugh.
Peter nodded assent, and looked up the street of dim water, his chin
propped in his hands, and thought how extraordinarily pleasant was the
red light that slanted across the dark water from green doors ajar in
steep house-walls.

Hilary tried to light a cigar, and flung broken matches into spluttering
darkness. At last he succeeded; and then, when he had smoked in silence
for two minutes, he turned abruptly on Peter and said, "Well?"

Peter, dreamily turning towards him, felt the nervous challenge of his
tone, and read it in his pale, tired face.

Peter pulled himself together and collected his thoughts. After all, one