Peter wrote:
_Dear, Dear Stephen,--I am furious, I hate myself. What can I have been
doing all this time? I have thought of you often, but my marriage and all
the new life have made me selfish, and always I put off writing to you
because I thought the quiet hour would come to me--and it has never come.
But I have no excuse--except that in the real part of myself I love
you, just the same as ever--and it will be always the same. I have been
bewildered, I think, by all the things that have happened to me during this
last year--but I will never be bewildered again. Write to me from Spain and
then as soon as you come back I will make amends for my wickedness. I am
now and always, Your loving Peter._
Mr. Zanti took the letter.
"How is he?" asked Peter.
"I found 'im--down in Treliss. He wasn't 'appy. 'E was thinking of that
woman. And then 'e was all alone. 'E got some work at a farm out at
Pendragon and 'e was just goin' there when I came along and made 'im come
to Spain. 'E was thinkin' of you a lot, Peter."
Mr. Zanti cast one more look round the room. "Pretty," he said. "Pretty.
But not my sort of place. Too many walls--all too close in."
In the hall he said once more--a little plaintively:--
"I _should_ like to see your lady, Peter," and then he went on hurriedly,
"But don't you go and disturb her--not for anything--_I_ understand.
Pages:
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445