"And is it your purpose, then, to spend all your life--anyhow, many
years--in these parts, selling needlework?"

"I've no purpose," said Peter. "I must see what turns up. No, I daresay I
shall try England again some time. But, wherever I am, I think I know now
what is the happy way to live, for people like me. We're no use, you see,
people like me; we make a poor job at the game, and we keep failing and
coming bad croppers and getting hurt and in general making a mess of
things. But at least we can be happy. We can't make our lives sublime,
and departing leave behind us footprints on the sands of time--oh, I
don't think I want to, in the least--but we can make a fairly good time
for ourselves and a few other people out of the things we have. That's
what we're doing, Thomas and I. And it's good enough."

Lord Evelyn looked at him long in silence, with his narrowed, searching
eyes, that seemed always to be looking for something in his face and
finding it there.

Then he sighed a little, and Peter, struck through by remorse, saw how
old he looked in that moment.

"How it takes one back--takes one back," muttered Lord Evelyn.

Then he turned abruptly on Peter.

"Lest you get conceited, young Peter, with me begging for your company
and being kindly refused, I'll tell you something. I loved your mother;
my brother's wife. Did you ever guess that?--guess why I liked you a good
deal?"