Claud Dalzell--although she was satisfied with that act, and ready to
repeat it again, if necessary--she had been conscious of a personal
loneliness, not sensibly mitigated by her crowd-attracting wealth.
"Someone of my own" was the want of her warm heart.

And Rose, with no petty grudge for past short-comings, answered that
need with open arms. Never was hostess more cordial to honoured guest.
Peter also was at home. He had been to town and back again, and now
stood upon his spotless doorstep, and anon upon his handsome
drawing-room hearthrug, determined that his house should lack nothing
befitting the great occasion. It was all in gala dress--newly-arranged
flowers, festive lunch-table, the best foot foremost; and yet, whereas
there was no hiding the self-seeker in the ingratiating Bennet
Goldsworthy, there was no finding him in this proud host and husband,
whose desire was only to do his dear wife credit.

Neither of them said, in word or manner, "Why didn't you come like this
before?" Deb knew that her welcome would have been the same, and had
hard work not to show too frankly her sense of their magnanimity. As it
was, she nearly kissed Peter in the hall--such a nice, warm,
comfortable, hospitable entrance to as comfortable a home (in
its undeniably middle-class style) as she had ever been inside of--the
more striking in its effect by contrast with Mary's. Peter's cuffs were
like the driven snow; he was charmingly fresh and clean, well barbered
and well tailored; grown quite handsome, too, now that he had filled
out and matured. As for Rose--"I hear," Frances wrote from Paris,
"that poor Rose has become a perfect tub." Mrs Peter was almost as
broad as she was long. But what health in the sunny face! What opulent
well-being in the full curves of her figure, gowned in a fashion to
satisfy even Deb's exigent taste.