“Did I?  I must have forgotten myself for a moment.”

“You must, indeed.  Pray be calm.  I understand that this must be a terrible shock to you.”

“It is not a shock,” said Lady Mary, defiantly.  “I glory in it.  I—­I wish him to go.  Oh, Peter, my darling!”

She hid her face in her hands.

“It would be more to the purpose,” said Sir Timothy, “to consider what is to be done.”

“Could we stop him?” she cried eagerly, and then changed once more.  “No, no; I wouldn’t if I could.  He would never forgive me.”

“Of course, we cannot stop him,” said Sir Timothy.  He raised his voice as he was wont when he was angry.  Canon Birch, in the drawing-room, heard the loud threatening tones, and was thankful for the door which shut him from Sir Timothy’s presence.  “He has laid his plans for thwarting my known wishes too well.  I do not know what might be said if we stopped him.  I—­I won’t have my name made a laughing-stock.  I am a Crewys, and the honour of the family lies in my hands.  I can’t give the world a right to suspect a Crewys of cowardice, by preventing his departure on active service.  We have fought before—­in a better cause.”

“We won’t discuss the cause,” said Lady Mary, gently.  When Sir Timothy began to shout, she always grew calm.  “Then you will not telegraph to my cousin Ferries?”

“Ferries ought to have written to me, and not taken the word of a mere boy, like Peter,” stormed Sir Timothy.  “But the fact is, I never flattered Ferries as he expected; it is not my way to natter any one; and consequently he took a dislike to me.  He must have known what my views are.  I am sure he did it on purpose.”

“It was natural he should believe Peter, and I don’t think he knows you well enough to dislike you,” said Lady Mary, simply.  “He has only seen you twice, Timothy.”

“That was evidently sufficient,” said Sir Timothy, meaning to be ironical, and unaware that he was stating a plain fact.  “I shall certainly not telegraph to tell him that my son has lied to him, well as Peter deserves that I should do so.”

“Oh, don’t, don’t; you are so hard!” she said piteously.  “If you’d only listened to him when he implored you to let him go, we could have made his last days at home all they should be.  He’s been hiding in London, poor Peter; getting his outfit by stealth, ashamed, whilst other boys are being feted and praised by their people, proud of earning so early their right to be considered men.  And—­and he’s only a boy.  And he said himself, all’s fair in love and war.  Indeed, Timothy, it is an exceptional case.”

“Mary, your weakness is painful, and your idolatry of Peter will bring its own punishment.  The part of his deception that should pain you most is the want of heart he has displayed,” said Sir Timothy, bitterly.

“And doesn’t it?” she said, with a pathetic smile.  “But one oughtn’t to expect too much heart from a boy, ought one?  It’s—­it’s not a healthy sign.  You said once you were glad he wasn’t sentimental, like me.”