Peter looked doubtful.  He was nervous.  Suppose Hilary met Urquhart again....  Dire possibilities opened.  Next time it might be “Peter must go and stay at your uncle’s place in Berkshire.”  That would be worse.  Yes, the worst had not happened, after all.  Urquhart might have met Peggy.  Peggy would in that case have said, “You nice kind boy, you’ve been such a dear to this little brother of ours, and I hear you and these boys used to share a mamma, so you’re really brothers, and so, of course, my brother too; and what a nice face you’ve got!” There were in fact, no limits to what Peggy might say.  Peggy was outrageous.  But it was surprising how much one could bear from her.  Presumably, Peter used to reflect in after years, when he had to bear from her a very great deal indeed, it was simply by virtue of her being Peggy.  It was the same with Hilary.  They were Hilary and Peggy, and one took them as such.  Indeed, one had to, as there was certainly no altering them.  And Peter loved both of them very much indeed.

When Peter went home for the holidays, he found that Hilary’s alliance with the woman Peggy Callaghan was not smiled upon.  But then none of Hilary’s projects were ever smiled upon by his uncle, who always said, “Hilary must do as he likes.  But he is acting with his usual lack of judgment.”  For four years he had been saying so, and he said it again now.  To Hilary himself he further said, “You can’t afford a wife at all.  You certainly can’t afford Miss Callaghan.  You have no right whatever to marry until you are earning a settled livelihood.  You are not of the temperament to make any woman consistently happy.  Miss Callaghan is the daughter of an Irish doctor, and a Catholic.”

“It is,” said Hilary, “the most beautiful of all the religions.  If I could bring myself under the yoke of any creed at all ...”

“Just so,” said his uncle, who was a disagreeable man; “but you can’t,” and Hilary tolerantly left it at that, merely adding, “There will be no difficulty.  We have arranged all that.  Peggy is not a bigot.  As to the rest, I think we must judge for ourselves.  I shall be earning more now, I imagine.”

Hilary always imagined that; imagination was his strong point.  His initial mistake was to imagine that he could paint.  He did not think that he had yet painted anything very good; but he knew that he was just about to do so.  He had really the artist’s eye, and saw keenly the beauty that was, though he did not know it, beyond his grasp.  His uncle, who knew nothing about art, could have told him that he would never be able to paint, simply because he had never been, and would never be, able to work.  That gift he wholly lacked.  Besides, like young Peter, he seemed constitutionally incapable of success.  A wide and quick receptiveness, a considerable power of appreciation and assimilation, made such genius as they had; the power of performance they desperately lacked; their enterprises always let them through.  Failure was the tragi-comic note of their unprosperous careers.