the party. A friend of yours? What! That horrible looking man? Oh! I suppose he was one of those dreadful people you knew in the slums or in Cornwall.”
Peter saw Mr. Zanti's dear friendly face, like a moon, staring at him, and heard his warm husky voice “Peter, my boy. . .”
He moved a little impatiently.
“Look here, old girl, you mustn't call him that. He's one of the very best friends I've ever had—and I've been rather pulled up lately—ever since that night you sent me to Brockett's. I've felt ashamed of myself. All my happiness and—you—and everything have made me forget my old friends and that won't do.”
She laughed. “And now I suppose you're going to neglect me for them—for horrid people like that man who came to-night.”
Her voice was shaking a little—he saw that her hands were clenched on her lap. He looked down at her in astonishment.
“My dear Clare, what do you mean? How could you say a thing like that even in jest? You know—”
She broke in upon him almost fiercely—“It wasn't jest. I meant what I said. I hate all these earlier people you used to know—and now, after our being so happy all this time, you're going to take them up again and make the place impossible—”
“Look here, Clare, you mustn't speak of them like that—they're my friends and they've got to be treated as such.“ His voice was suddenly stern. “And by the way as we are talking about it I don't think it was very kind of you to tell me nothing at all about poor Norah's being so ill. She asked you to tell me and you never said a word. That wasn't very kind of you.”
“I did speak to you about it but you forgot—”
“I don't think you did—I am quite sure that I should not have forgotten—”
“Oh, of course you contradict me. Anyhow there's no reason to drag Norah Monogue into this. The matter is perfectly clear. I will not have dirty old men like that coming into the house.”
“Clare, you shall not speak of my friends—”
