gathering crowd was like the confused, blundering hum of bees; a band was playing stridently in Oxford Street.
Once Peter said: “It passes about three-thirty, doesn't it? I think I'll just go out and have a look later. It'll be fine if only the sun comes.”
Mr. Zanti turned slowly round.
“I'm afraid, boy,” he said, “you'll be wanted in ze shop. At two Herr Gottfried must be going out for some business—zere will be no one—I am zo zorry.”
They wanted to keep him there, that was evident. Or, at any rate, they didn't want him to see the Procession.
“Very well,” he said cheerfully, “I'll stay. There'll be plenty more Processions before I die.” But why, why why? What was there that they wanted him to avoid?
He went on arranging the piles of dusty books, the sense of weighty expectation growing on him with every instant. The clock struck one, but he did not go out to luncheon; the others were still motionless in their places.
Once Herr Gottfried spoke: “The people will have been waiting a much-more-than-necessary long time,” he said.
“The police doubtless have frightened them, but there is still room to walk in the streets and there have been some unfortunates, since early in the morning—”
The street beyond the shop was now deserted because soldiers guarded its approach into Oxford Street; the shop seemed to be left high and dry, beyond the noise and confusion of the street.
Then there came into the silence a sharp sound that made Peter amongst his books, jump to his feet: the Russian girl was crying.
She stood there, leaning her thin dark body against the side of the door, surely the most desolate figure in the world. Her hands were about her face, her body heaved with her sobbing and the little sad noise came into the dusty tangled room and hung amongst the old broken books as though they only could sympathise and give it shelter. The band in Oxford Street was blazing with sound but it did not hide her crying.
Mr. Zanti crossed to her and spoke to her but she suddenly let her hands fall from her face and turned upon him, furiously, wildly—“You . . .” she said, “You . . .”
