easy. He felt now as though he ought to resign his evening, climb to his little room and work at “The Stone House.” And yet what connection could that possibly have with Mr. Zanti?
His uneasiness had begun, he thought, after his visit to Brockett's. It seemed to him as he went upstairs to dress that the world was too full of too many things and that his outlook on it all was confused.
Throughout dinner this uneasiness remained with him. Had he been less occupied with his own thoughts he would have noticed that Clare was not herself; at first she talked excitedly without waiting for his answers—there were her usual enthusiasms and excitements. Everything in the day's history had been “enchanting” or “horrible,” as a rule she waited for him to act up to her ecstasies and abhorrencies; to-night she talked as though she had no audience but were determined to fill up time. Then suddenly she was silent; her eyes looked tired and into them there crept a strange secret little shudder as though she were afraid of some thought or mysterious knowledge. She looked now like a little girl who knew, that to-morrow—the inevitable to-morrow—she must go to the dentist's to be tortured.
The last part of the meal was passed in silence. Afterwards she came into his study and sat curled upon the floor at his feet watching him smoke.
She thought as she looked up at him, that something had happened to make him younger. She had never seen him as young as he was to-night—and then because his thoughts were far away and because her own troubled her she made a diversion. She said:—
“Who was that extraordinary man you were talking to this evening?”
He came back, with a jerk, from Stephen.
“What man?”
“Why the man with all the black hair and a funny squash hat. I saw Sarah let him in.”
“Ah, that,” said Peter, looking down at her tenderly, “that was a great friend of mine.”
She moved her head away.
“Don't touch my hair, Peter—it's all been arranged for
