He enfolded Peter in his arms, pressed him against very wet garments,
kissed him on both cheeks and burst into a torrent of explanation. He was
only in London for a very few days--he must see his dearest Peter--so
often before he had wanted to see his Peter but he had thought that it
would be better to leave him--and then he had heard that his Peter was
married--well, he must see his lady--it was entirely necessary that he
should kiss her hand and wish her well and congratulate her on having
secured his "own, own Peter," for a life partner. Yes, he had found his
address from that Pension where Peter used to live; they had told him and
he had come at once because at once, this very night, he was away to Spain
where there was a secret expedition--ah, very secret--and soon--in a month,
two months--he would return, a rich, rich man. This was the adventure of
Mr. Zanti's life and when he was in England again he, Mr. Zanti, would see
much of Peter and of his beautiful wife--of course she was beautiful--and
of the dear children that were to come--
Here Peter interrupted him. He had listened to the torrent of words in an
odd confusion. The last time that he had seen Mr. Zanti he had left him,
sitting with his head in his hands sobbing in the little bookshop. Since
then everything had happened. He, Peter, had had success, love, position,
comfort--the Gods had poured everything into his hands--and now, to his
amazement as he sat there, in the little room opposite his huge fantastic
friend he was almost regretting all those glorious things that had come to
him and was wishing himself back in the dark little bookshop--dark, but
lighted with the fire of Mr.
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