Simon Called Peter | Page 3

not want her just
then. He could hardly tell why, except that, somehow, she ran counter
to his thoughts altogether that morning. She seemed, even in her
excellent brown costume that fitted her fine figure so well, out of place,
and out of place for the first time.
They were not openly engaged, these two, but there was an
understanding between them, and an understanding that her family was
slowly recognising. Mr. Lessing, at first, would never have accepted an
engagement, for he had other ideas for his daughter of the big house in
Park Lane. The rich city merchant, church-warden at St. John's,
important in his party, and a person of distinction when at his club,
would have been seriously annoyed that his daughter should consider a
marriage with a curate whose gifts had not yet made him an income.
But he recognised that the young man might go far. "Young Graham?"
he would say, "Yes, a clever young fellow, with quite remarkable gifts,
sir. Bishop thinks a lot of him, I believe. Preaches extraordinarily well.
The Rector said he would ask him to St. John's one morning...."

Peter Graham's parish ran down to the river, and included slums in
which some of the ladies of St. John's (whose congregation had seen to
it that in their immediate neighbourhood there were no such things)
were interested. So the two had met. She had found him admirable and
likeable; he found her highly respectable and seemingly
unapproachable. From which cold elements much more may come than
one might suppose.
At any rate, now, Mrs. Lessing said nothing when Hilda went to post a
letter in London on Sunday morning before breakfast. She would have
mildly remonstrated if the girl had gone to meet the young man. The
which was England once, and may, despite the Kaiser, be England yet
once more.
"I was nearly going," she declared. "You're a bit late."
"I know," he replied; "I couldn't help it. The early service took longer
than usual. But I'm glad to see you before breakfast. Tell me, what does
your father think of it all?"
The girl gave a little shrug of the shoulders, "Oh, he says war is
impossible. The credit system makes it impossible. But if he really
thinks so, I don't see why he should say it so often and so violently. Oh,
Peter, what do you think?"
The young man unconsciously quickened his pace. "I think it is
certain," he said. "We must come in. I should say, more likely, the
credit system makes it impossible for us to keep out. I mean, half
Europe can't go to war and we sit still. Not in these days. And if it
comes--Good Lord, Hilda, do you know what it means? I can't see the
end, only it looks to me like being a fearful smash.... Oh, we shall pull
through, but nobody seems to see that our ordinary life will come down
like a pack of cards. And what will the poor do? And can't you see the
masses of poor souls that will be thrown into the vortex like, like...." He
broke off. "I can't find words," he said, gesticulating nervously. "It's
colossal."
"Peter, you're going to preach about it: I can see you are. But do take

care what you say. I should hate father to be upset. He's so--oh, I don't
know!--British, I think. He hates to be thrown out, you know, and he
won't think all that possible."
She glanced up (the least little bit that she had to) anxiously. Graham
smiled. "I know Mr. Lessing," he said. "But, Hilda, he's got to be
moved. Why, he may be in khaki yet!"
"Oh, Peter, don't be silly. Why, father's fifty, and not exactly in
training," she laughed. Then, seriously: "But for goodness' sake don't
say such things--for my sake, anyway."
Peter regarded her gravely, and held open the gate. "I'll remember," he
said, "but more unlikely things may happen than that."
They went up the path together, and Hilda slipped a key into the door.
As it opened, a thought seemed to strike her for the first time. "What
will you do?" she demanded suddenly.
Mrs. Lessing was just going into the dining-room, and Peter had no
need to reply. "Good-morning, Mr. Graham," she said, coming forward
graciously. "I wondered if Hilda would meet you: she wanted to post a
letter. Come in. You must be hungry after your walk."
A manservant held the door open, and they all went in. That magic sun
shone on the silver of the breakfast-table, and lit up the otherwise heavy
room. Mrs. Lessing swung the cover of a silver dish and the eggs
slipped in to boil. She touched a button on the table and sat down, just
as