explain jokes; they lose so in the telling. Now I want to show you
something over here."

Peter crossed the room, his laughter dead. After all, funny wasn't what
it really was. Mainly, it was perplexing. Till he could have it out with
Hilary, he couldn't understand it at all.

He saw more of Lord Evelyn's treasures, and perplexity grew. He did not
laugh again; he was very solemn and very silent and very polite where he
could not admire. Where he could he did; but even here his admiration was
weighed down to soberness by the burden of the things beyond the pale.

Lord Evelyn found him lukewarm, changed and dulled from the vivid
devotee of old, who had coloured up all over his pale face at the sight
of a Bow rose-bowl. He coloured indeed now, when Lord Evelyn said "Like
it?"--coloured and murmured indistinguishable comments into his collar.
He coloured most when Lord Evelyn said, as he frequently did, "Your
brother's find. A delicious little man in some _sotto-portico_ or
other--quite an admirable person. Eh, Margerison?"

Hilary in the background would vaguely assent. Peter, who looked at him
no more, felt the indefinable challenge of his tone. It meant either,
"I've as much right to my artistic taste as you have, Peter, and I'm
not ashamed of it," or, "Speak out, if you want to shatter the illusions
that make the happiness of his ridiculous life; if not, be silent."

And all the time the vivid stare of Jim Cheriton was turned like a
search-light on Peter's face, and his odd smile grew and grew. Cheriton
was watching, observing, taking in something new, trying to solve some
problem.