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§ 12

It was Gervase, not Peter, who lay awake that night, thinking of Stella Mount. He had been glad when he was told to take her in to dinner, and the meal which had been so unspeakably trying to his brother had passed delightfully for him. On his other side sat Doris, deep in conversation with Charles Hurst, so he did not have to bother about her—he could talk to Stella, who was so easy to talk to. . . .

Afterwards in the drawing-room he had not felt so easy. He knew that he must not monopolise Stella, for she was Peter's. So when he heard the men crossing the hall, he made some excuse and left her, to see Rose sit down by her side directly Peter came in. He was glad when poor old Peter had managed to get near her at last . . . though he hadn't seemed to make much of his opportunities. He had sat beside her, stupid and silent, scarcely speaking a word all the evening through.

Upstairs in bed, in his little misshapen room under the north gable, where he had slept ever since the night-nursery was given up, Gervase shut his eyes and thought of Stella. She came before the darkness of his closed eyes in her shining blue dress—a dress like midnight. . . . She was the first woman he had really noticed since in far-back childish days he had had an infatuation for his rather dull daily governess—his "beautiful Miss Turner" as he had called her and thought of her still . . . . But Stella was different—she was less of a cloud and a goddess, more of a breathing person. He wondered—was he falling in love? It was silly to fall in love with Stella, who was six years older than he . . . though people said that when boys fell in love it was generally with women older than themselves. But he mustn't do it. Stella was Peter's . . . . Was she? . . . Or was it merely true that he wanted to take her and she wanted to be taken?