He enfolded Peter in his arms, pressed him against very wet garments, kissed him on both cheeks and burst into a torrent of explanation. He was only in London for a very few days--he must see his dearest Peter--so often before he had wanted to see his Peter but he had thought that it would be better to leave him--and then he had heard that his Peter was married--well, he must see his lady--it was entirely necessary that he should kiss her hand and wish her well and congratulate her on having secured his “own, own Peter,” for a life partner. Yes, he had found his address from that Pension where Peter used to live; they had told him and he had come at once because at once, this very night, he was away to Spain where there was a secret expedition--ah, very secret--and soon--in a month, two months--he would return, a rich, rich man. This was the adventure of Mr. Zanti's life and when he was in England again he, Mr. Zanti, would see much of Peter and of his beautiful wife--of course she was beautiful--and of the dear children that were to come-- Here Peter interrupted him. He had listened to the torrent of words in an odd confusion. The last time that he had seen Mr. Zanti he had left him, sitting with his head in his hands sobbing in the little bookshop. Since then everything had happened. He, Peter, had had success, love, position, comfort--the Gods had poured everything into his hands--and now, to his amazement as he sat there, in the little room opposite his huge fantastic friend he was almost regretting all those glorious things that had come to him and was wishing himself back in the dark little bookshop--dark, but lighted with the fire of Mr. Zanti's amazing adventures. But there was more than this in his thoughts. As he looked at Mr. Zanti, at his wild black locks, his flaming cheeks, his rolling eyes, his large red hands, he was aware suddenly that Clare would not appreciate him. It was the first time since his marriage that there had been any question of Clare's criticism, but now he knew, with absolute certainty, that Mr. Zanti was entirely outside Clare's range of possible persons. For the first time, almost with a secret start of apprehension, he knew that there were things that she did not understand. “I'm afraid,” he said, “that my wife is dressing. But when you come back you shall meet of course--that will be delightful.” And then he went on--“But I simply can't tell you how splendid it is to look at you again. Lots of things have happened to me since I saw you, of course, but I'm just the same--” Whilst he was speaking his voice had become eager, his eyes bright--he began to pace the room excitedly--