There was a little stir by the door. Henry turned and found Peter Westcott standing at his side.
He was instantly delighted to perceive that the change that had crept over him since the afternoon did not include Peter. His feeling for Peter was the same that it had ever been, intensified if possible. He loved Peter as he stood there, strong, apart, independent, resolute. That was the kind of independence that Henry himself must achieve so that he would not be swayed by every little emotional and critical wind that blew.
"Hallo, Peter," he said, "I was looking for you."
"You haven't been looking very hard," said Peter. "I've been here a long time."
"There's so much smoke," said Henry.
"Yes, there is. And I've had enough of it. And I'm going."
"I'm going too," said Henry. "Mrs. Hunter has looked at me twice and I don't believe that she's the least idea who I am."
"You're going?" said Westcott astonished. "Why, you love these parties. I expected you to be here all night."
"I don't love it to-night," said Henry solemnly. "It all seems silly. Let's go."
They went down into the Hall, found their coats and passed into the serenity and peace of Barton Street.