“Oh, Zanti! ... the days we used to have. I suppose the times I've been having lately had put it all out of my head, but now, with you here, it's all as though it happened yesterday. The day we left Cornwall, you and I--the fog when we got to London ... everything.” He drew a great breath and stood in the middle of the room listening to the rain racing down the pipes beyond the dark windows. Mr. Zanti, getting up ponderously, placed his hands on Peter's shoulders. “Still the same Peter,” he said. “Now I know zat I go 'appy. Zat is all I came for--I said I must zee my Peter because Stephen--” “Stephen--” broke in Peter sharply. “Yes, our Stephen. He goes with me now to Spain. He is now, until to-night, in London but he will not come to you because 'e's afraid--” “Afraid?” “Yes 'e says you are married now and 'ave a lovely 'ouse and 'e says you 'ave not written for a ver' long time, and 'e just asked me to give you 'is love and say that when 'e comes back from Spain, per'aps--” “Stephen!” Peter's voice was sharp with distress. “Zanti, where is he now? I must go and see him at once.” “No, 'e 'as gone already to the boat. I follow 'im.” Then Mr. Zanti added in a softer voice--“So when he tell me that you 'ave not written I say 'Ah! Mr. Peter forgets his old friends,' and I was zorry but I say that I will go and make sure. And now I am glad, ver' glad, and Stephen will be glad too. All is well--” “Oh! I am ashamed. I don't know what has come over me all this time. But wait--I will write a note that you shall take to him and then--when he comes back from Spain--” He went to his table and began to write eagerly. Mr. Zanti, meanwhile, went round the room on tip-toe, examining everything, sometimes shaking his huge head in disapproval, sometimes nodding his appreciation. Peter wrote: _Dear, Dear Stephen,--I am furious, I hate myself. What can I have been doing all this time? I have thought of you often, but my marriage and all the new life have made me selfish, and always I put off writing to you because I thought the quiet hour would come to me--and it has never come. But I have no excuse--except that in the real part of myself I love you, just the same as ever--and it will be always the same. I have been bewildered, I think, by all the things that have happened to me during this last year--but I will never be bewildered again. Write to me from Spain and then as soon as you come back I will make amends for my wickedness. I am now and always, Your loving Peter._ Mr. Zanti took the letter. “How is he?” asked Peter. “I found 'im--down in Treliss. He wasn't 'appy. 'E was thinking of that woman. And then 'e was all alone. 'E got some work at a farm out at Pendragon and 'e was just goin' there when I came along and made 'im come to Spain. 'E was thinkin' of you a lot, Peter.” Mr. Zanti cast one more look round the room. “Pretty,” he said. “Pretty. But not my sort of place. Too many walls--all too close in.”