"Then why," said Peter, "why did he refuse that shilling?
Artfulness," concluded Peter, "pure artfulness. Elizabeth, old
girl, we've got out of this business cheaply. Good idea, that
half-sovereign." Peter gave vent to a chuckle that had the effect
of alarming Elizabeth.

But luck evidently was not with Peter that night.

"Pingle's was sold out," explained Tommy, entering with parcels;
"had to go to Bow's in Farringdon Street."

"Oh!" said Peter, without looking up.

Tommy passed through into the little kitchen behind. Peter wrote
on rapidly, making up for lost time.

"Good!" murmured Peter, smiling to himself, "that's a neat phrase.
That ought to irritate them."

Now, as he wrote, while with noiseless footsteps Tommy, unseen
behind him, moved to and fro and in and out the little kitchen,
there came to Peter Hope this very curious experience: it felt to
him as if for a long time he had been ill--so ill as not even to
have been aware of it--and that now he was beginning to be himself
again; consciousness of things returning to him. This solidly
furnished, long, oak-panelled room with its air of old-world
dignity and repose--this sober, kindly room in which for more than
half his life he had lived and worked--why had he forgotten it? It
came forward greeting him with an amused smile, as of some old