Stephen appeared to fling a troubled look in the direction of Mr. Zanti's broad back. He hesitated. “Well,” he said awkwardly, “I don't rightly know. I've got to be going out for an hour or two--I can't rightly say as I'll be back. This afternoon, maybe--” Peter did not press it any farther. They must settle these things for themselves, but what was the matter with them all this morning was more than he could pretend to discover. Stephen, still troubled, went out. Fortunately there was this morning a good deal of work for Peter to do. A large number of second-hand books had arrived during the day before and they must be catalogued and arranged. Moreover there were several customers. A young lady wanted “something about Wagner, just a description of the plays, you know.” “Of the Operas,” Peter corrected. “Oh, well, the stories--that's what I want--something about two shillings, have you? I don't think it's really worth more--but so that one will know where one is, you know.” She was bright and confidential. She had thought that everything would be closed because of the Procession... _so_ lucky-- A short red-faced woman, dressed in bright colours, and carrying innumerable little parcels wanted “Under Two Flags,” by Mrs. Henry Wood. “It's by Ouida, Madam,” Peter told her. “Nonsense, don't tell me. As if I didn't know.” Peter produced the volume and showed it to her. She dropped some of her parcels--they both went to pick them up. Red in the face, she glared at him. “Really it's too provoking, I know it was Mrs. Henry Wood I wanted.” “Perhaps 'East Lynne,' or 'The Channings'--” “Nonsense--don't tell me--it was 'Under Two Flags.'” Finally the woman put both “Under Two Flags” and “East Lynne” into her bag and departed. A silence fell upon the shop. Herr Gottfried was at his desk, Mr. Zanti at the street door, the girl at the door of the inner room, they were all motionless. Beyond the shop the murmur of the gathering crowd was like the confused, blundering hum of bees; a band was playing stridently in Oxford Street. Once Peter said: “It passes about three-thirty, doesn't it? I think I'll just go out and have a look later. It'll be fine if only the sun comes.” Mr. Zanti turned slowly round. “I'm afraid, boy,” he said, “you'll be wanted in ze shop. At two Herr Gottfried must be going out for some business--zere will be no one--I am zo zorry.” They wanted to keep him there, that was evident. Or, at any rate, they didn't want him to see the Procession. “Very well,” he said cheerfully, “I'll stay. There'll be plenty more Processions before I die.” But why, why, why? What was there that they wanted him to avoid? He went on arranging the piles of dusty books, the sense of weighty expectation growing on him with every instant. The clock struck one, but he did not go out to luncheon; the others were still motionless in their places.