most devoted to the tending of the unprosperous.

Peter remembered her--compassionate, delicate, lovely, full of laughter,
with something in the dance of her vivid dark-blue eyes that hinted at
radiant and sad memories. She had loved Lord Hugh for a glorious and
brief space of time. The love had perhaps descended, a hereditary
bequest, with the deep blue eyes, to her son. Peter would have understood
the love; the thing he would not have understood was the feeling that
had flung her on the tide of reaction at Mr. Margerison's feet. Mr.
Margerison was a hard liver and a tremendous giver. Both these things
had come to mean a great deal to Sylvia Urquhart--much more than they
had meant to the girl Sylvia Hope.

And hence Peter, who lay and looked at Lord Hugh Urquhart's son with
wide, bright eyes. With just such eyes--only holding, let us hope, an
adoration more masked--Sylvia Hope had long ago looked at Lord Hugh,
seeing him beautiful, delicately featured, pale, and fair of skin, built
with a strong fineness, and smiling with pleasant eyes. Lord Hugh's
beauty of person and charm of manner had possibly (not certainly) meant
more to Sylvia Hope than his son's meant to her son; and his prowess at
football (if he had any) had almost certainly meant less. But, apart from
the glamour of physical skill and strength and the official glory of
captainship, the same charm worked on mother and son. The soft, quick,
unemphasised voice, with the break of a laugh in it, had precisely the
same disturbing effect on both.

"Well," Urquhart was saying, "when will they let you play again? You must
buck up and get all right quickly.... I shouldn't wonder if you made a
pretty decent three-quarter sometime.... You ought to use your arm as
soon as you can, you know, or it gets stiff, and then you can't, and