obvious readiness to abandon, at any moment, these splendid riches for the sake of a valued attachment. “I love wearing these things,” you might hear him say, “but I love still better to do anything in the world that I can for you, my friend.”
Stephen presented a more moderate appearance, but he was brown with health and shining with strength. He was like the old Stephen of years and years ago, so different from the man who had shared with Peter that room in Bucket Lane.
He carried himself with that air of strong, cautious reserve that Cornishmen have when they are in some other country than their own; his eyes, mild, gentle, but on the alert, ready at an instant to be hostile. Then, when Peter came in, the reserve instantly fled. They had, all three of them, perhaps, expected embarrassment, but at that cry of Peter's they were suddenly together, Mr. Zanti, waving his hands, almost shouting, Stephen, his eyes resting with delight on Peter, Peter himself another creature from the man who had pursued Mortimer Stant in the room upstairs, half an hour before.
“We thought that ze time 'ad come, dear boy . . . we know zat you are busy.” Mr. Zanti looked about him a little anxiously, as though he expected to find Mrs. Peter hiding under a chair or a sofa.
“Oh! Stephen, after all this long long while! Why didn't you come before when Mr. Zanti came?”
“Too many of us coming, Mr. Peter, and you so busy.”
“Nonsense. I'm not in the least busy. I'm sorry to say my wife's out but the baby's in, upstairs, and there's the most terrific woman up there too, the nurse—I'm frightened out of my life of her—but we'll get rid of her and have the place to ourselves . . . you know the kid's called after you, Stephen?”
“No, is he really.” Stephen's face shone with pleasure. “I'm keen to see him.”
“Oh, he's a trump! There never really was such a baby.”
“And your books, Mr. Peter?”
“Oh! the books!” Peter's voice dropped, “never mind them now. But what have you been doing, you two?
