I feel as though they were two precious pieces of china that a
housemaid might sweep off the chimney piece at any moment. If only nobody
will touch them--"
Meanwhile Peter had forgotten, utterly forgotten, the rest of the world.
Walls and fires--for a year they had held him. The Roundabout versus the
World.... What of old Frosted Moses, of the Sea Road, of Stephen, of Mr.
Zanti? What of those desperate days in Bucket Lane? All gone for nothing?
Clare, perhaps, with this year behind her, hardly realised the forces
against which she was arrayed. Beware of the Gods after silence....
IV
And, after all, it was Clare herself who flung down the glove.
On a winter's evening she was engaged to some woman's party. Peter had
planned an evening, snug and industrious, alone with a book. "The Stone
House" awaited his attention--he had not worked at it for months. Also he
knew that he owed Henry Galleon a visit. Why he had not been to see the old
man lately he scarcely knew.
Clare, standing in the little hall, waiting for a cab, suggested an
alternative.
"Peter dear, why don't you go round to Brockett's if you've nothing to do?"
"Brockett's!"
"Yes. You've never been since we married, and I had a letter from Norah
this morning--not at all cheerful--I'm afraid she's been ill for months.
They'd love to see you."
"Brockett's!" He stood astounded.
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