“I mean it,” he said rather gruffly.
“Oh yes, that's of course—but that is enough. Oh dear, yes ... well, my friend, I like you. You are very strong, you are brave I can see—you have a fine spirit. One thing you lack—with all you English it is the same.”
He paused interrogatively but Peter did not seem to wish to know what this quality was.
“Yes, it is ze Humour—you do not see how funny life is—always—always funny. Death, murder, robberies, violences—always funny—you are. Oh! so solemn and per'aps you will be annoyed, think it tiresome, because I laugh—”
“No,” said Peter gravely, “I like your laughing.”
“Ah! That is well.” Suddenly he jerked his body forward and stared into Peter's face.
“Well!... Will you come?”
Peter hung back, his face white. He was only conscious that Zachary, quiet and smiling in the background, watched him intently.
“What!... with you ... to London!”
“Yes ... wiz me—what of your father? Will he be furious, hey?”