“Ah, that's well!” Mr. Zanti clapped him on the shoulder. “There is no need for you to say now. On ze Wednesday in Easter week I go--before then you will tell me. We shall get on together, I know it. If you will 'ave a leetle more of ze Humour you will be a very pleasant boy--and useful--Ho, yes!” To Peter then the shop was not visible--a mist hung about his eyes. “Much time for your stories”... said Mr. Zanti, and he shouted with laughter as his big form hung before Peter. The large white hand with the flashing rings enclosed Peter's. For a moment the hands were on his shoulders and in his nostrils was the pungent scent of the hair-oil that Mr. Zanti affected--afterwards silence. Peter said farewell to Zachary and promised to come soon and see him again. The little bell tinkled behind him and he was in the street. The great wind caught him and blew him along the cobbles. The flying mountains of cloud swept like galleons across the moor, and in Peter's heart was overwhelming triumph ... the lights of London lit the black darkness of the high sea road. IV The doors of Scaw House clanged behind him and at once he was aware that his father had to be faced. Supper was eaten in silence. Peter watched his father and his grandfather. Here were the three of them alone. What his grandfather was his father would one day be, what his father was, he ... yes, he must escape. He stared at the room's dreary furniture, he listened to the driving rain and he was conscious that, from the other side of the table, his father's eyes were upon him. “Father,” he said, “I want to go away.” His heart was thumping. Mr. Westcott got up from his place at the table and stood, with his legs a little apart, looking down at his son. “Why?” “I'm doing no good here. That office is no use to me. I shall never be a solicitor. I'm nearly eighteen and I shall never get on here. I remember things... my mother...” his voice choked. His father smiled. “And where do you want to go?” “To London.” “Oh! and what will you do there?” “I have a friend--he has a bookshop there. He will give me two pounds a week at first so that I should be quite independent--” “All very nice,” Mr. Westcott was grave again. “And so you are tired of Treliss?” “Not only Treliss--this house--everything. I hate it.” “You have no regret at leaving me?” “You know--father--that...” “Yes?” Peter rose suddenly from the table--they faced one another. “I want you to let me go. You have never cared in the least for me and you do not want me here. I shall go mad if I stay in this place. I must go.” “Oh, you must go? Well, that's plain enough at any rate--and when do you propose leaving us?” “After Easter--the Wednesday after Easter,” he said. “Oh, father, please. Give me a chance. I can do things in London--I feel it. Here I shall never do anything.” Peter raised his eyes to his father's and then dropped them. Mr. Westcott senior was not pleasant to look at.