CHAPTER XIII
“MORTIMER STANT”
I
Next morning Peter went round to Cardillac's flat and made his apologies. Cardillac accepted them at once with the frankest expressions of friendship.
“My dear old Peter, of course,” he said, taking both Peter's hands in his, “I was horribly blunt and unpleasant about the whole thing. I didn't mean half what I said, but the fact is that you got angry and then I suppose I got angry—and then we both said more than we meant.”
“No,” said Peter slowly, “for you were quite right. I have been selfish and morbid. I see it all quite clearly. I'm going to be very different now, Cards, old man.”
Cards' flat was splendid—everything in it from its grey Ascot trouserings kind of wall paper to its beautiful old chairs and its beautiful old china was of the very best—and Cards himself, in a dark blue suit with a black tie and a while pearl and white spats on his shining gleaming shoes, just ready to go out and startle Piccadilly was of the very best. He had never, Peter thought, looked so handsome.
At the door Cards put a hand on Peter's shoulder.