Jean said good-bye.
“I hope we meet again.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “we must.”
Just as I was getting into the car, I remembered that I had left a book in the morning-room.
“I’ll get it,’’ said Peter. “I know where it is.”
He went off into the house, and I followed him, because I had an idea that its whereabouts was probably behind one of the cushions of the arm-chair in which I had been sitting. As I came through the door, he was standing on the far side of the morning-room, looking about among some books and papers on a table. He was not far from another door on the opposite side of the room, and, as I reached the threshold, this farther door was opened by Lady McReith. She did not see me, and stood for a second smiling at Peter, but without speaking. Then suddenly she said: “Catch,” and impelled through the air towards him some small object. Peter brought his right hand down sharply and caught, within the palm, whatever had been thrown towards him. He said: “Thanks, Gwen. I’ll remember next time.”
I saw now that he was putting on his wrist-watch. By this time I was in the room, and making for the book — Winter Comes — which lay on one of the window-seats. I said good-bye to Lady McReith, who responded with much laughter, and Peter returned with me to the car, saying: “Gwen is quite mad.” Sunny Farebrother was still engaged in some final business arrangement with Mr. Templer, which he brought to a close with profuse thanks. We set out together on the journey to the station.
The manner of Lady McReith’s return of Peter’s watch was the outward, and visible sign to me of his whereabouts after we had returned from the Horabins’. The fact that an incisive step of one sort or another had been taken by him in relation to Lady McReith was almost equally well revealed by something in the air when they spoke to each other: some definite affirmation which made matters, in any case, explicit enough. The propulsion of the watch was merely a physical manifestation of the same thing. In the light of Peter’s earlier remark on the subject of absence from his room during the attempted ragging of Sunny Farebrother, this discovery did not perhaps represent anything very remarkable in the way of intuitive knowledge: especially in view of Lady McReith’s general demeanour and conversational approach to the behaviour of her friends. At the same time — as in another and earlier of Peter’s adventures of his kind — his enterprise was displayed, confirming my conception of him as a kind of pioneer in this increasingly familiar, though as yet still largely unexplored, country. It was about this time that I began to think of him as really a more forceful character than Stringham, a possibility that would never have presented itself in earlier days of my acquaintance with both of them.
These thoughts were cut short by Sunny Farebrother, who whispered to me (though two sheets of glass divided us from the chauffeur): “Were you going to give this chap anything?” Rather surprised at his curiosity on this point, I admitted that two shillings was the sum I had had in mind. I hoped he would not think that I ought to have suggested half a crown. However, he nodded gravely, as if in complete approval, and said: “So was I; but I’ve only got a bob in change. Here it is. You add it to your florin and say it’s from both of us.”
When the moment came, I forgot to do more than hand the coins to the chauffeur, who, perhaps retaining memories of earlier visits, did not appear to be unduly disappointed. In spite of the accumulation of luggage, extraordinary exertions on Farebrother’s part made it possible to dispense with the assistance of a porter.
“Got to look after the pennies, you know,” he said, as we waited for the train. “I hope you don’t travel First Class, or we shall have to part company.”
As no such difficulty arose, we found a Third Class compartment to ourselves, and stacked the various items of Farebrother’s belongings on the racks. They almost filled the carriage.
“Got to be prepared for everything,” he said, as he lifted the bat and pads. “Do you play this game?”
“Not any longer.”
“I’m not all that keen on it nowadays myself,” he said. “But a cricketer always makes a good impression.”
For about three-quarters of an hour he read The Times. Then we began to talk about the Templers, a subject Farebrother introduced by a strong commendation of Peter’s good qualities. This favourable opinion came as something of a surprise to me; because I was accustomed to hear older persons speak of Peter in terms that almost always suggested improvement was absolutely necessary, if he were to come to any good in life at all. This was not at all the view held by Farebrother, who appeared to regard Peter as one of the most promising young men he had ever run across. Much as I liked Peter by that time. I was quite unable to see why anything in his character should appeal so strongly to Farebrother, whose own personality was becoming increasingly mysterious to me.
“Peter should do well,” Farebrother said. “He is a bit wild. No harm in that. He knows his way about. He’s alive. Don’t you agree?”
This manner of asking one’s opinion I had already noticed, and found it flattering to be treated without question as being no longer a schoolboy.
“Of course his father is a fine old man,” Farebrother went on. “A very fine old man. A hard man, but a fine one.”
I wondered what had been the result of their business negotiations together, in which so much hardness and fineness must have been in operation. Farebrother had perhaps begun to think of this subject too, for he fell into silence for a time, and sighed once or twice; at last remarking: “Still, I believe I got the best of him this time.”
As that was obviously a matter between him and his host, I did not attempt to comment. A moment later, he said: “What did you think of Stripling?”
Again I was flattered at having my opinion asked upon such a subject; though I had to admit to myself that on the previous night I had been equally pleased when Stripling had, as it were, associated me with his projected baiting of Farebrother. Indeed, I could not help feeling, although the joke had missed fire, that I was not entirely absolved from the imputation of being in some degree guilty of having acted in collusion with Stripling on that occasion. I was conscious, therefore, unless I was to appear in my own eyes hopelessly double-dealing, that some evasive answer was required. Accordingly, although I had not much liked Stripling, I replied in vague terms, adding some questions about the relative success of his motor-racing.
“I don’t really understand the fellow,” Farebrother said. “I quite see he has his points. He has plenty of money. He quite often wins those races of his. But he always seems to me a bit too pleased with himself.”
“What was Babs’s first husband like?”
“Quite a different type,” said Farebrother, though without particularising.
He lowered his voice, just as he had done in the car, though we were still alone in the compartment.
“A rather curious thing happened when we got in from that dance last night,” he said. “As you know, I went straight up to my room. I started to undress, and then I thought I would just cast my eye over an article in The Economist that I had brought with me. I find my brain seems a bit clearer for that kind of thing late at night.”
He paused for a moment, and shook his head, suggesting much burning of midnight oil. Then he went on: “I thought I heard a good deal of passing backwards and forwards and what sounded like whispering in the passage. Well, one year when I stayed with the Templers they made me an apple-pie bed, and I thought something like that might be in the wind. I opened the door. Do you know what I saw?”