inferior to himself—at least to 'do' something. 'What can you do? That's all I ask!' He had certainly done enough, and there was no mistake about what he had to show. Lance had tears in his eyes when it came thus to letting his old friend know how great the strain might be on the 'sacrifice' asked of him. It wasn't so easy to continue humbugging—as from son to parent—after feeling one's self despised for not grovelling in mediocrity. Yet a noble duplicity was what, as they intimately faced the situation, Peter went on requiring; and it was still, for a time, what his young friend, bitter and sore, managed loyally to comfort him with. Fifty pounds, more than once again, it was true, rewarded, both in London and in Paris, the young friend's loyalty; none the less sensibly, doubtless, at the moment, that the money was a direct advance on a decent sum for which Peter had long since privately prearranged an ultimate function. Whether by these arts or others, at all events, Lance's just resentment was kept for a season—but only for a season—at bay. The day arrived when he warned his companion that he could hold out—or hold in—no longer. Carrara Lodge had had to listen to another lecture delivered from a great height—an infliction really heavier, at last, than, without striking back or in some way letting the Master have the truth, flesh and blood could bear.
'And what I don't see is,' Lance observed with a certain irritated eye for what was, after all, if it came to that, due to himself too—'What I don't see is, upon my honour, how you, as things are going, can keep the game up.'
'Oh, the game for me is only to hold my tongue,' said placid Peter. 'And I have my reason.'
'Still my mother?'
Peter showed, as he had often shown it before—that is by turning it straight away—a queer face. 'What will you have? I haven't ceased to like her.'
'She's beautiful—she's a dear, of course,' Lance granted;
