His cheeks were hot and his heart was beating so loudly that it was surely no wonder that Herr Lutz had discovered his malady. The sextette came to an end and the six musicians sat, for a moment, silent on their chairs whilst they dragged themselves into the world that they had for a moment forsaken. That was a great instant of silence when every one in the room was concerned entirely with their souls and had forgotten that they so much as had bodies at all. Then Herr Lutz gathered his huge frame together, stuck his hand into his beard and cried aloud for drink. Beer was provided--conversation was, for the next two hours, volcanic. When twelve o'clock struck in the church round the corner the meeting was broken up. Herr Lutz said to Peter, “There is still the 'verdammte' fog. Together we will go part of the way.” So they went together. But on the top of the dark and crooked staircase Herr Gottfried stopped Peter. “Boy,” he said and he rubbed his nose with his finger as he always did when he was nervous and embarrassed, “I shouldn't go to the shop for a week or two if I were you.” “Not go?” said Peter astonished. “No--for reason why--well--who knows? The days come and they go, and again it will be all right for you. I should rub up the Editors, I should--” “Rub up the Editors?” repeated Peter still confused. “Yes--have other irons, you know--often enough other irons are handy--” “Did Zanti tell you to say this to me?” “No, he says nothing. It is only I--as a friend, you understand--” “Well, thank you very much,” said Peter at last. Herr Gottfried, he reflected, must think that he, Peter, had mints of money if he could so lightly and on so slender a warning propose his abandoning his precious two pounds a week. Moreover there was loyalty to Mr. Zanti to be considered.... Anyway, what did it all mean? “I can't go,” he said at last, “unless Zanti says something to me. But what are they all up to?” “Seven years,” said Herr Gottfried darkly, “has the Boy been in the shop--of so little enquiring a mind is he.” And he would say nothing further. Peter followed Herr Lutz' huge body into the street. They took arms when they encountered the fog and went stumbling along together. “You are in lof,” said Herr Lutz, breathlessly avoiding a lamp post. “Yes,” said Peter, “I am.” “Ah,” said Herr Lutz giving Peter's arm a squeeze. “It is the only thing--The--Only--Thing.... However it may be for you--bad or ill--whether she scold or smile, it is a most blessed state.” He spoke when under stress of emotion, in capitals with a pause before the important word. “It won't come to anything,” said Peter. “It can't possibly. I haven't got anything to offer anybody--an uncertain two pounds a week.”