Zanti.
II
Three days after Peter's visit to Brockett's he was finishing a letter
before dressing for dinner. He and Clare were going on to a party later
in the evening but were dining quietly alone together first. The storms
that had fallen upon London three days before were still pommelling and
buffeting the city, the trees outside the window groaned and creaked with
a mysterious importance as though they were trying to tell one another
secrets, and little branches tapped at the dripping panes. He was writing
in the little drawing-room--warm and comfortable--and the Maria Theresa, so
small a person in so much glory, looked down on him from her silver frame
and gave him company.
Then Sarah--a minute servant, who always entered a room as though swept
into it by a cyclone--breathlessly announced that there was a gentleman to
see Mr. Westcott.
"'E's drippin' in the 'all," she gasped and handed Peter a very dirty bit
of paper.
Peter read:--"Dear Boy, Being about to leave this country on an expedition
of the utmost importance I feel that I must shake you by the hand before I
go. Emilio Zanti."
Mr. Zanti, enormous, smiling from ear to ear, engulfed in a great coat
from which his huge head, buffeted by wind and rain--his red cheeks, his
rosy nose, his sparkling eyes--stood out like some strange and cheerful
flower--filled the doorway.
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