possessing nothing and smiling over the thought.

Peter said, "How funny," meaning the combination of Urquhart and the
motor-car and Tuscany and the grey dawn and Rodney and himself; Urquhart
was smiling down at them, his face pale in the strange dawn-twilight.
The scene was symbolical of their whole relations; it seemed as if
Urquhart, lifted triumphantly above the road's dust, had always so smiled
down on Peter, in his vagabond weakness.

"I don't think," Urquhart was saying, "that you ought to walk so far in
the night. It's weakening." To Urquhart Peter had always been a brittle
incompetent, who could not do things, who kept breaking into bits if
roughly handled.

"Rodney and I don't think," Peter returned, in the hushed voice that
belonged to the still hour, "that you ought to motor so loud in the
night. It's common. Rodney specially thinks so. Rodney is sulking; he
won't come and speak to you."

Urquhart called to his cousin: "Come with me to Florence, you and
Margery. Or do you hate them too much?"

"Much too much," Rodney admitted, coming forwards perforce. "Thank you,"
he added, "but I'm on a walking tour, and it wouldn't do to spoil it.
Margery isn't, though. You go, Margery, if you like."

Urquhart said, "Do, Margery," and Peter looked wistful, but declined. He
wanted horribly badly to go with Urquhart; but loyalty hindered.

Urquhart said he was going to Venice afterwards, to stay with his uncle