Was it jealousy? Peter flung out his hands at the stars; tears of impotent rage came into his eyes. The pain he endured was impersonal jealousy for a creature desecrated. He was jealous not for the woman whose soul for a moment he had touched, but for life itself profaned. XIV All that night, with his window wide to the cold air, Peter pondered the life of London. Early next day, his head confused with grasping at ideas whereby intellectually to express his disgust, he went into the streets. He walked into a broad Western thoroughfare famous for cheap books. Embedded among the more substantial warehouses was an open stall which Peter had frequently noticed. The books in this shop were always new, always cheap, very strangely assorted, and mostly by people of whom Peter had never heard. There were plays, pamphlets, studies in economy and hygiene, in mysticism and the suffrage, trade-unionism and lyric poetry, Wagner and sanitation. Peter looked curiously at an inscription in gold lettering above the door: "The Bomb Shop." The keeper of the stall came forward as Peter lingered. He was tall, with disordered hair, neatly dressed in tweeds. He looked at Peter in a friendly way--obviously accessible. "You are reading the inscription?" he said politely. "What does it mean?" Peter asked. "Have you looked at any of the books?" "They seemed to be mixed." "They are in one way all alike." "How is that?" "Explosive." The keeper of the stall looked curiously at Peter, and began to like his ingenuous face. "Come into the shop," he said, and led the way into its recesses. "This is not an ordinary shop," he explained, as Peter began to read some titles. "I am a specialist." "What is your subject?" Peter formally inquired. "Revolution. Every book in this establishment is a revolutionary book. All my books are written by authors who know that the world is wrong, and that they can put it right." "Who know that the world is wrong?" Peter echoed. "That's the idea." "I know that the world is wrong," said Peter wearily. "I want to know the reason." "It's a question of temperament," said the bookman. "Some like to think it is a matter of diet or hygiene. Here is the physiological, medical, and health section. Some think it is a question of beauty and ugliness. The art section is to your right. Or perhaps you are an economist?" Peter, who had not yet compassed irony, looked curiously at his new friend. "Seriously?" he said at last, and paused irresolutely. "You want me to be serious?" "I've been in London for five days. Last night I was at a theatre. Then a woman spoke to me in the street. I don't understand it." "What don't you understand?" "I don't understand anything." The bookman began to be interested. "Have you any money?" he briefly inquired. Peter pulled out a bundle of notes. "Are these any good?" he asked. The bookman looked at the notes, and at Peter with added interest.