quite different from the "me" who was thinking about him now. Only he was gone, and just one person in the world knew anything about him, and he, too, I supposed, as years passed would forget. . . . .
"Why are you sitting up here in the cold, child?"
Mrs. Carroll had opened the door and was speaking to me. "How long have you been here? Come down to tea."
I looked round and saw that the room had filled with dusk. "Oh, not very long." I smiled. "I'm not cold." But I shivered slightly as I spoke.
"That means you have been here ever since you came in. It is really very wrong of you, Peter. The fire is laid, and all you had to do was to put a match to it."
I followed her downstairs. There was no one in the drawing-room, and I was glad we were going to be by ourselves. I sat on the hearth-rug, hugging my knees, gazing into the red, glowing grate.
"Is Miss Dick out?" I asked.
"She went out to tea."
I waited till the servant had come in and cleared away the tea-things. Then I said, "I have something to tell you."
Mrs. Carroll, her plump, rather large hands moving swiftly and deftly amid soft, fleecy wool, was knitting what looked remarkably like an under-garment for me. "Yes, dear," she replied.
But instead of proceeding I asked a question: "Won't it cost a great deal, my going away—with a tutor, and all that?"
"Not very much. It is of no importance."
"But you will be paying for it, won't you?" I urged.
"My dear child, why do you want to discuss such things now?"
"I have a reason."
