Well, why not? A strange
emotion--uncomfortable, alien, stirred him. He kissed her and saw her go
with a half-distracted gaze. What a world away Brockett's seemed! Old Mrs.
Lazarus, Norah (poor Norah!) Mrs. Brockett, young Robin Tressiter. They
would be glad to see him--it was a natural thing enough that he should
go--what was it that held him back? For the first time since his marriage,
as he slowly and thoughtfully put on his greatcoat, he was distressed. He
reproached himself--Norah, Stephen, Mr. Zanti!... he had not given them a
thought.
He felt, as he went out, as though he were going, with key and candle, to
unlock some old rusty door that led into secret rooms. It was a wet, windy
night. The branches of the little orchard rattled and groaned, and doors
and windows were creaking.
As he passed into the shadows and silence of Bloomsbury the impression
weighed with increasing heaviness upon him that the old Peter had come back
and that his married life with Clare had been a dream. He was still at
Brockett's, still silent, shy, awkward, still poring over pages of "Reuben
Hallard" and wondering whether any one would ever publish it--still
spending so many hours in the old musty bookshop with Herr Gottfried's wild
mop of hair coming so madly above the little counter.
The wind tugged at his umbrella, the rain lashed his face and at last,
breathless, with the sharp corner of his upturned collar digging into his
chin, he pulled the bell of the old grey remorseless door that he knew so
well.
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