As he neared the hotel where he lived, he met Ted Kent, quitting his office—going home to Sheila.
At once Ted stopped and put out his hand. For in his mind no hostility against Peter had lingered. Indeed, on the occasion when he had upbraided Sheila about Peter, he had felt very little animosity toward Peter himself, and several months having passed in a strict compliance to his wishes on Sheila's part, the whole matter had almost vanished from his memory. His was not a nature to cherish resentment, to brood over fancied wrongs; he liked to be at peace with all his fellow-men and upon genial terms with them. He was animated by a distinct cordiality toward Peter now, as he extended his hand to him.
"Been calling on the girls, Burnett?" he inquired jovially.
"On one of them," admitted Peter.
"Well, it's been a long while since I did anything like that—a long while. And I'm not sorry either. There's nothing like your slippers and your pipe and your paper at home! When I have to work late, as I did to-night, it's a real hardship. Have a drink with me before I go on?"
"Thanks," said Peter pleasantly, "but I'm in a bit of a hurry. I've got to pack up. I'm leaving town in the morning."
"Leaving town? For a vacation?"
"No, for work. I've had a job offered me in New York. Brentwood, of the Brentwood Publishing Company, has been asking me to come to them for years, and I've finally decided to go."
"High-brows, aren't they—the Brentwood Company?" Ted questioned, somewhat impressed.
"Perhaps you'd call them so. They publish real literature—a good many translations; that's what they want me for."