He even found himself envying those old Treliss days. There at any rate things had happened. There had been an air, a spirit. Fighting his father--or at any rate, escaping from his father--had been something vital. And here he was now, an ill-tempered, useless youth, earning two pounds a week, in love with some one who was scarcely conscious of his existence. He cursed the futility of it all. And so fuming, he crossed the threshold of the bookshop, and, unwitting, heedless, left for ever behind him the first period of his history. “Programme of the Royal Procession,” a man was shouting--“Coloured 'Andkerchief with Programme of Royal Procession--” Peter, stepping into the dark shop, was conscious of Mr. Zanti's white face and that behind him was standing Stephen. III At the sight of their faces, of their motionless bodies and at the solemn odd expression of their eyes as they looked past him into the dark expanse of the door through which he had entered, he knew that something was very wrong. He had known it, plainly enough, by the fact of Stephen's presence there, but it seemed to him that he had known it from his first awakening that morning and that he was only waiting to change into hard outline the misty shapelessness of his earlier fears. But, there and then, he was to know nothing-- Stephen greeted him with a great hand-shake as though he had met him only the day before, and Mr. Zanti with a smile gave him his accustomed greeting. In the doorway at the other end of the shop the Russian girl was standing, one arm on the door-post, staring, with her dark eyes, straight through into the gloomy street. “What are you all waiting for?” Peter said to the motionless figures. With his words they seemed at once to spring to life. Mr. Zanti rolled his big body casually to the door and looked down the street, Stephen, smiling at Peter said: “I was just passing, so I thought to myself I'd just look in,” his voice came from his beard like the roll of the sea from a cave. “Just for an hour, maybe. It's a long day since we've 'ad a bit of a chat, Mr. Peter.” Peter could not take it on that casual scale. Here was Stephen vanished during all those years, returned now suddenly and with as little fuss as possible, as though indeed he had only been hiding no farther than behind the door of the shop and waiting merely to walk out when the right moment should have arrived. If he had been no farther than that then it was unkind of him--he might have known how badly Peter had wanted him; if, on the other hand, he had been farther afield, then he should show more excitement at his return. But, Peter thought, it was impossible to recognise in the grave reserved figure at his side that Stephen who had once given him the most glorious evening of his life. The connection was there somewhere but many things must have happened between those years. “Shall we go and have luncheon together?” Peter asked.