brighter and shine more--but now they
glitter like the sun, all new."

"I expect so," said Peter.

Then she had a little stab of remorse; for Peter had been turned out of
the place of glittering things, and moved in a grey and dusty world among
things no one could like.

"'Tis so _stupid_ that your work is like that," she said, with puckered
forehead. "I wish you could find something nice to do, Peter dear."

"Oh, I'm all right," said Peter. "And there are all the nice things which
aren't work, just the same. Rhoda and I went a ride in a steamer this
morning. And the sun was shining on the water--rather nice, it was. Even
Rhoda grew a little brighter to see it. Poor Rhoda; the boarders do worry
her so. I'm sorry about it; they don't worry me; I rather like them.
Some day soon I want you to come and see Rhoda; it would cheer her up.
I wish she liked things more. She's left off her bead necklace, you know.
And she gets worried because people discuss the condition of 'the
departed' (that's what we call them in the boarding-house). Rhoda is sure
they are in nothingness. I told her it was impossible for me to speculate
on such things. How can one, you know? People have so much imagination.
Mine always sticks at a certain point and won't move on. Could you do it
if someone asked you to imagine Denis, say, without his body?"

She wrinkled her forehead, trying to.

"Denis's body matters a lot," was her conclusion. "I suppose it's because
it's such a nice one."

"Exactly," said Peter. "People's bodies are nice. And when they're not I
don't believe their minds are very nice either, so I'd rather not think
about them. Now I must go home."

It was very hot going home. London was a baked place, full of used
air--Peter's bedroom on a large scale. Peter tried walking back, but
found he was rather giddy, so got into a bus that took him the wrong
way, a thing he often did. Riding across London on the top of a bus is,
of course, the greatest fun, even if it is the wrong bus. It makes up for
almost any misfortune.

A few days later, after office hours, Peter took Urquhart at his word
and went to his rooms. Urquhart wasn't there, but would be in some time,
he was told, so he sat and waited for him. It was a pleasant change after
the boarding-house rooms. Urquhart's things were nice to look at, without
being particularly artistic. There was nothing dingy, or messy, or
second-rate, or cheap. A graceful, careless expensiveness was t