“I was just passing, so I thought to myself I'd just look in,” his voice came from his beard like the roll of the sea from a cave. “Just for an hour, maybe. It's a long day since we've 'ad a bit of a chat, Mr. Peter.”
Peter could not take it on that casual scale. Here was Stephen vanished during all those years, returned now suddenly and with as little fuss as possible, as though indeed he had only been hiding no farther than behind the door of the shop and waiting merely to walk out when the right moment should have arrived. If he had been no farther than that then it was unkind of him—he might have known how badly Peter had wanted him; if, on the other hand, he had been farther afield, then he should show more excitement at his return.
But, Peter thought, it was impossible to recognise in the grave reserved figure at his side that Stephen who had once given him the most glorious evening of his life. The connection was there somewhere but many things must have happened between those years.
“Shall we go and have luncheon together?” Peter asked.
Stephen appeared to fling a troubled look in the direction of Mr. Zanti's broad back. He hesitated. “Well,” he said awkwardly, “I don't rightly know. I've got to be going out for an hour or two—I can't rightly say as I'll be back. This afternoon, maybe—”
Peter did not press it any farther. They must settle these things for themselves, but what was the matter with them all this morning was more than he could pretend to discover.
Stephen, still troubled, went out.
Fortunately there was this morning a good deal of work for Peter to do. A large number of second-hand books had arrived during the day before and they must be catalogued and arranged. Moreover there were several customers. A young lady wanted “something about Wagner, just a description of the plays, you know.”
“Of the Operas,” Peter corrected.
“Oh, well, the stories—that's what I want—something about two shillings, have you? I don't think it's really worth more—but so that one will know where one is, you know.”