Dear Peter I sail on Thursday from Southampton and would be coming to see
you but would not like to inconvenience you as you now are, but my heart is
ever the same to you, Dear Boy, and the day will come when we can talk over
old times once again.
Your affectionate friend, sir,
Now about to be made the happiest man in all the world,
Stephen.
N.B. I hope the little kid is strong and happy.
N.B. Zanti goes with us to America having heard of gold in California and
is to be my best man when the day comes._
So Stephen's long wait was ended at last. Peter's eyes were dimmed as he
put the letter away in his pocket. What a selfish beast, to be sure, must
this same Peter Westcott, be, for here he was wishing--yes, almost
wishing--that Stephen's happiness had not come to him. Always at the back
of everything there had been the thought of Stephen Brant. Let all the pits
in the world gape and yawn, there was one person in the world to whom Peter
was precious. Now--in America--with a wife... some of the sunlight had gone
out of the air and Peter's heart was suddenly cold with that old dread.
Another friend taken from him! Another link gone! Then he pulled himself
together, tried to rejoice with Stephen at his happiness, failed dismally,
walked down Piccadilly defiantly, with swinging shoulders and a frowning
face, like a sailor in a hostile country, and went into the Bond Street
jeweller's.
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