of ze most wonderful things that I know and you and I—we two—Oh! ze times we all 'ave—”
“No,” . . . Peter drew back. “That is not my way. I am going to make my living here, in London—or die for it.”
“No—you must not. You will succeed—you will grow fat and sleepy and ze good things of the world and ze many friends will kill your soul. I know it . . . but come with me, first and we will 'ave adventures . . . and zen you shall write.”
But Peter's face was set. The time for the new life had come. Up to this moment he had been passive, he had used his life as an instrument on which others might play. From henceforward his should be the active part.
The crowds were pouring up the street on their homeward way. Bands were playing the soldiers back to the barracks. Soon the streets would have only the paper bags left to them for company. The little bookshop hung, with its misty shelves about the three men. . . . Somewhere in another room, a girl was staring with white set face and burning eyes in front of her, for her lover was dead and the world had died with him.
After a little time amongst the second-hand novels Mr. Zanti sat, his great head buried in his hands, the tears trickling down through his fingers, and Herr Gottfried, motionless from behind his counter watched him in silent sympathy.
Peter and Stephen had gone together.
