"Oh, you know, it came open in my hand; and understanding the language so
well, it leaped to my eyes. I knew you would not mind. You will go and
see this milord? He _is_ a milord, for I heard the waiter address him."

"Yes," said Peter. "I will go and see him."

An hour later he was climbing the white road again in the morning
sunshine.

Asking at the hotel for Lord Evelyn Urquhart, he was taken through the
garden to a wistaria-hung summer-house. The porter indicated it to him
and departed, and Peter, through the purple veils, saw Lord Evelyn
reclining in a long cane chair, smoking the eternal cigarette and reading
a French novel.

He looked up as Peter's shadow fell between him and the sun, and dropped
the yellow book with a slight start. For a moment neither of them spoke;
they looked at each other in silence, the pale, shabby, dusty youth with
his vivid eyes; the frail, foppish, middle-aged, worn-out man, with his
pale face twitching a little and his near-sighted eyes screwed up, as if
he was startled, or dazzled, or trying hard to see something.

The next moment Lord Evelyn put out a slim, fine hand.

"How are you, Peter Margerison? Sit down and talk to me."

Peter sat down in the chair beside him.

Lord Evelyn said, "I'm quite alone this morning. Denis and Lucy have
motored to Genoa. I join them there this afternoon.... You didn't know