"But you're going to forgive him before he goes, Timothy.

There's no time to be angry before he goes.

It may be too late to-morrow." "It may be too late to-morrow," repeated Sir Timothy, heavily.
He resented, in a dull, self-pitying fashion, the fact that his wife's thoughts were so exclusively fixed on Peter, in her ignorance of his own more immediate danger.
"Don't think I'm blind to his faults," urged Lady Mary, "only I can laugh at them better than you can, because I _know_ all the while that at the very bottom of his heart he's only my baby Peter after all.
He's not--God bless him--he's _not_ the dreary, cold-blooded, priggish boy he sometimes pretends to be.

Don't remember him like that now, Timothy.

Think of that morning in June--that glorious, sunny morning in June, when you knelt by the open window in my room and thanked God because you had a son.