“Cornwall?”
“Come too, Peter.”
“Ah! don't I wish that I could!” He suddenly saw his life, his books—everything in London holding him, tying him—“But I can't go now, my father being there makes it impossible. But in any case, I'm a family man now—you know.”
As he said the words he was conscious that, in Stephen's eyes at any rate, the family man was about the last thing that he looked. He was wondering, with intense curiosity, what were the things that Stephen was finding in him, for the things that Stephen found were most assuredly the things that he was. No one knew him as Stephen knew him. Against his will the thought of Clare came driving upon him. How little she knew him! or was it only that she knew another side of him?
But he pulled himself away from that. “Now for the nursery—Stephen Secundus. But you'll have to support me whilst I get rid of Mrs. Kant—perhaps three of us together—”
As he led the way upstairs he knew that Stephen was not entirely reassured about him.
Mrs. Kant was a large, busy woman, like a horse—a horse who dislikes other horses and sniffs an enemy in every wind. She very decidedly sniffed an enemy now, and Mr. Zanti's blue suit paled before her fierce eyes. He stepped back into the doorway again, treading upon Stephen. Peter, who was always conscious that Mrs. Kant looked upon himself and Clare as two entirely ridiculous and slightly impertinent children, stammered a little.
“You might go down and have your tea now, Mrs. Kant. I'll keep an eye upon Stephen.”
“I've had my tea, thank you, sir.”
“Well, I'll relieve you of the baby for a little.” She was sewing. She snapped off a piece of thread with a sharp click of her teeth, sat silently for a moment staring in front of her, then quietly got up. “Thank you, sir,” she said and left the room.