“Peter Blagden!”
“That’s my name!” said Mr. Petre, as suddenly. To which he added, “Buffy Thompson!” Within his mind what had been a dead wall of mist began to roll and form into clouds; and now dim shapes appeared, which were already almost memories.
“Peter Blagden!” shouted the new-comer; and slapped him on the shoulder and put an arm in his and led him sharply round the corner into St. James’s Place.
“When did you get back?”
As naturally as if his misfortune had never happened, Mr. Petre said:
“She was due at Portsmouth on April the 3rd, I think. My memory is not very good, Buffy. But I’m pretty sure she made good time. I am pretty sure it was the 3rd that I landed.”
“April the third! Good Lord, man! That’s half a year ago. Why didn’t you let me know?” said Buffy.
They crossed St. James’s Street together.
“I was ill,” said Mr. Petre, looking oddly askance and a little ashamed.