But had she? Had she kissed her hand? And, if she had, did it mean anything?

Harry, having hauled him back into college, had crept away sleepily, thankful that his watch was ended. Peter sat on by the open window, imagining and questioning. The wide white moon rode quietly at anchor; dusk-gray roofs were vague as an ocean bed. Not a sound. Nothing stirred.

But yes. Behind stone walls of a college garden a recluse nightingale commenced to warble: little notes at first, as though a child threw back the counterpane of darkness and muttered to itself; then a cry—a full, clear stream of song that fell like silver showered through the tree-tops. Peter closed his eyes; imprisoned love was speaking with its throat outstretched. In the shadows a heart was pouring forth its yearning; the world slept. Was love always like that—a bird in a hidden garden, with none to listen, setting dreams to music?

A sash was raised. It was across the street and further down. The sound came from the Professor’s house. It might be Glory. Odd, if they two were keeping watch together! Should he call to her? If he remembered, he would question her to-morrow. His eyes grew dusty; he folded his arms beneath his head.

Someone entered. Morning! He was drenched with sunlight. A voice addressed him discreetly, apologetically, “Overdoin’ it a bit last night? Shall I pour out your bath, sir? It’ll pull you together.”

Peter laughed gaily, then a little shamefully when he realized what the scout had meant. “I’m having brekker out. My bath—no, it doesn’t matter.”

Picking up a towel, he ran down to the barges through the glistening meadows. What a splendid world, dazzling and dew-wet! Stripping, he dived into the river. Shaking his head like a dog as he rose to the surface, he drifted down stream, turned, fought his way back and climbed out glowing. A day with her! She had promised.

He had to breakfast with the Professor—all his family were to be there; and, after that———. His father might have plans. It would be ages before he could be alone with her. The clocks of the city were striking eight—big and little voices together. Could he manage it? There was time for just a word.

He was panting when he came to Hell Passage and entered the courtyard. Her window was wide. He called to her. She didn’t answer. He plucked a rose and tossed it in the air; it landed on her window-ledge. When she wakened she might find it and guess that he had been there.

Professor Usk was in his moral mood that morning. “A great pity—a great pity that young Oxford drinks to excess.”—He was trying to impress his wife with his own extreme temperance.

Hardcastle was a guest. Riska was seated next to him; beneath the surface of what others were saying, they carried on a softly spoken conversation, private to themselves. Riska’s piquant face was alive with interest. Every now and then she laughed and clapped her hands, shaking her head incredulously, stooping her shoulders and glancing sideways at Hardcastle. They might have been old friends. Her color came and went when she found herself observed; behind her apparent artlessness there lay a calm and determined self-possession.

Peter took his place between Kay and his mother. “Happy Peterkins,” Kay whispered; “your face is—is a lamp.” She squeezed his hand.

He was silent and excited, impatient for the next two hours to end. Sometimes his thoughts were in the sun-swept street, hurrying to a little courtyard, where a window stood wide and the echoes of Oxford ran together. Sometimes his attention was caught by a remark, as when the Professor turned to his wife, who had just sat down, and said, “Oh, Agnes, while you’re up——” and she replied, “But, Benares, I’m not up.”

His mother watched him, noticing the gladness in his eyes. She wondered what it meant. Glory, lifting her face to his, gazed at him furtively from beneath her lashes.

They had gone upstairs to the room from which Jehane had looked down on Barrington. Peter had said, “There was a nightingale singing. Did any of you hear it?” and Glory was about to answer, when the prancing of hoofs drew them crowding to the window—it was a coach setting out for London. On the box sat the Faun Man, reining in and steadying the chestnut four-in-hand. The roof was a garden—river-hats and girls’ faces; every seat was taken. As they came clattering up the cobbled street, the horn was blowing merrily. Peter took one glance, and was racing down the stairs. The watchers at the window saw him dash out, sprint hatless to the corner and vanish.

The Faun Man pulled up. “Hulloa, Peter! Searched for you all over college. They said you’d gone out to brekker. Want to come with us? We’ll find room for you.”

Peter wasn’t looking at the Faun Man, nor at Harry, who sat behind him. He wasn’t looking at the golden woman, who was trying to catch his attention. He was looking at Cherry. Her place was on the box, to the right of the Faun Man. She returned his gaze with laughter at first; then, because he didn’t laugh back, she turned away her head. And Peter—he was puzzled and hurt. Why was she escaping? She had promised. And why, when she was escaping, did she wear his rose against her breast?

“Going to London!” he said slowly. “No, I can’t join you.”

He swung round and was walking away. Harry called after him, “We’re not going to London, you chump. We’re only going as far as High Wycombe to look at a house. Climb aboard, and buck up.”

The golden woman added her persuasion. “For my sake, Peter. It’s Tree-Tops—the house we’re going to look at. Sounds almost as fine as the Happy Cottage, doesn’t it? Lorie’s going to live there, perhaps.”

Harry thought he had spotted the trouble. “We’ll be in Oxford before nightfall—catch a train back.”

Peter answered shortly. “Sorry. I can’t. I’ve got my people with me.”

He waved his hand and stepped from the road to the pavement.

Cherry had said nothing. She let her clear eyes rest on him. The horses were getting restive with standing and the passengers impatient. The Faun Man shook out his whip; the leaders jumped forward. “Well, if you can’t, you can’t,” he said.

Suddenly Cherry spoke. “I’m not going. Please let me down.”

The Faun Man whistled. “So that’s the way the wind’s blowing!”

The ladder was brought out. Peter helped her to descend.

“Good-bye and good Luck.”

The horn sounded. As the coach rolled on its way, every head was turned, looking back. It grew dim in the dust of its journey. They were left alone in the sharp sunlight, embarrassed in each other’s presence.

It was she who spoke first, in a little caressing voice which mocked its own sincerity. “That wasn’t nice of me. And yet I didn’t intend——. I didn’t really, Peter—not at first. I thought—we all thought you’d be one of the party. And then—because I wanted to go, I forgot all about you. D’you forgive me?”

“If you wanted to go, I’m——.”

She broke in on him. “There, instead of making things better, I’ve made them worse. I shouldn’t have come to Oxford—I’ve hurt you.”

Shouldn’t have come to Oxford! She was threatening to go out of his life again, just when he’d refound her. “Cherry,” he said, “I’m willing to be hurt by you every day, if only I may see you. Don’t you remember? Can’t you understand? I’d rather be hurt by you than loved by any other woman in the world.”

“I know that.”

In silence they walked back to the Professor’s house. At the corner of the street, before they came into view, he asked, “D’you mind spending the morning with my people? They’re returning to London this afternoon; then we can be by ourselves.”

The faces were still at the window, looking out; he was very conscious of the curiosity he aroused. When he had climbed the stairs and entered the room, he explained, as though it were the most natural of happenings, “I’ve brought Cherry with me.”

His father relieved the awkwardness by asking, “What are we going to do?”

“Why not the river?” Hardcastle suggested.

They set out in two punts from the barges. The Professor and his wife had excused themselves, saying that they had to work. Hardcastle took charge of Glory and Riska; Peter of the rest. They turned up the Cherwell, past the Botanical Gardens, through Mesopotamia, coming at last to Parsons’ Pleasure. The sound of bathers on the other side of the island warned them. The ladies got out, while the men drew the punts across the rollers, taking them round to the farther landing. Barrington accompanied Nan by the footpath.

Directly they were alone she turned to him, “Is there anything between them?”

“Between who?”

“That girl and Peter?”

Her husband laughed and held her arm more firmly, “Between her and Peter! What an idea! Match-maker!”

Nan leant against him, as if seeking his protection. “Match-maker? Not that. I dread it. I want to keep them with us, Kay and Peter, always—always.”

Tears were in her eyes. He remembered; once before in this place he had seen her like that. “Have you forgotten?” he said. “It was here that it all began—everything between us. It was after we three had met—a rainy day, with the sun coming out. I left you to take the punt round the island, and Jehane said something behind my back—something that brought tears. It was when I saw you crying, Pepperminta, that I loved you.”

She uttered the wonderfully obvious, linking up his memory with the present. “We little thought of Peter then.”

By the Parks the river was dense with row-boats, punts and Canaders. Girls lay back on cushions under sunshades—sweethearts and sisters. Men, in college colors and flannels, shouted to one another, “Look ahead, sir.” Here and there a Blue showed up or a Leander, occasioning respect and whispered explanations. The great men of the undergraduate world were pointed out. Peter was recognized as the stroke-oar of Calvary. He didn’t notice the heads that were turned—didn’t care. His eyes rested on Cherry as often as they dared. Before his parents she treated him casually. There were times when he spoke to her and she paid him no attention. He was unhappy—did she dislike him? Then, as though she felt that she was overdoing it, a secret flash would pass between them and his fears were quieted.

“Don’t forget,” his father reminded him; “we leave for London this afternoon.”

Hardcastle, with his lighter burden, was pushing on ahead. Peter looked at his watch, “It’s almost one now. And I don’t like to——.” He stooped to whisper to his father; then straightened up. “Cherry knows why. I don’t like to let Hardcastle out of my sight—not with Riska. He isn’t the sort of man——. We’ll have to follow. If I can’t punt you back, you can lunch at the inn at Marston Ferry and catch a tram. That’ll get you to the station in time.”

To Nan that day was like the repetition of an old story. Once before—how long ago was it?—once before she had drifted up this quiet stream, between gnarled trees and whispering rushes, to the gray inn where a crisis in her life had threatened. She recalled Jehane, dark and tragic, with trailing hands. She could see Billy, gay and careless. Peter was like him, and Kay was very much what she had been then.—Her eyes fell on Cherry; she examined her slightness, the frailty of her throat, her astonishing gray eyes looking out of a face of pallor, the delicate mist of hair sweeping across the whiteness of her forehead. Not the girl for Peter! There wasn’t a girl good enough. And then she tried to believe that she was foolish. It hadn’t happened to him yet—not yet.

And the parting—it was the same as long ago. Everything was repeating itself. She and Kay and Billy stepped aboard the ferry. At the last moment Glory said she would accompany them. The man pulled on the rope; the ferry lumbered out into the stream. Peter and the girl, and Hardcastle and Riska were waving to them from the bank. Nan had never thought that she could feel so cruel toward anybody. As she crossed the meadows she looked back. Peter and the girl, pigmy figures now, were still waving. Jehane and Billy had waved to her like that, standing near together. The old pang! And then she looked at Glory, walking quietly with her head bent, never turning. In a flash little memories, trifles in themselves, sprang up and became significant, each one pointing in the same direction. She stole forward and took Glory’s hand.

Hardcastle and Riska had vanished; their punt was gone from the landing. Upstream the river was lost to view in a slow bend. No one was in sight. An atmosphere of secrecy had settled down. From arbors of the inn and tufted places along the banks came the indistinct murmur of voices. The country looked uninhabited, stretching away for miles in squares and triangles of meadows, each one different in coloring from the next. Through the green panorama of trees and hedges the winding of the river was traceable by the flowered freshness that it left. Overhead, casting fantastic shadows, drifted white unwieldy clouds.

Peter helped her in, arranged the cushions for her and pushed off from the bank. He had expected to say so much to her to-day; now the silence was more happy. The day was running out; the veiled radiance of a summer’s evening crept across the landscape. A little breeze sprang up, blew through his hair and stooped the reeds to the water’s surface. She lay curled up and contented, humming to herself; he could just hear her voice above the splash of his pole and the lapping of the river. Sometimes she would raise her eyes and smile down the distance of the punt that separated them. When he wasn’t looking she gazed more intently at his tall, flanneled figure, noticing his tanned arms, with the sleeves rolled back, and the upright litheness of his body. Did his eyes catch hers unexpectedly, she veiled them in inscrutable innocence. The waterway was narrowing, becoming choked with weeds and bulrushes.

“Your mother,” he stopped punting and turned at the sound of her high, clear voice; “your mother didn’t like me. You may tell her that she needn’t be frightened.”

What did she mean? She spoke gently, without resentment. “Not like you, little Cherry! No one could help——.”

“Oh, yes. She didn’t like me.” She raised herself on her elbow. “And she was right. Won’t you please stop caring for me; then we can be friends. She saw what I told you from the first: that I’m not your sort—quite different, Peter.”

He swung the nose of the punt round, so that it crunched into a tall, green wilderness that sprang up and closed behind their passage. He laid aside the pole and looked down the length of their refuge, regarding her intently.

“Stop caring for you!” He laughed shortly. “As though I could—the matter’s out of my hands. I never had a chance not to care for you. If I didn’t believe that a day was coming when—when you’d be kinder to me, Cherry, I’d not want to go any further—I mean with living. I’m not good at saying things in words; you’re everything to me.”

She avoided his glance, turning her head away so that he watched her side-face. She spoke in a low voice, with concentrated vehemence. “It’s terrible to feel like that. People are sure to disappoint you. You’ve no right to allow yourself to depend on someone else for all your happiness.”

“But if I don’t mind? If I’m willing to take my chance?”

She lifted up her face appealingly. “Then it isn’t fair to me, Peter. You force me to become responsible. It isn’t that I don’t like you. I admire you; that isn’t love. You don’t know your own mind yet; there are heaps and heaps of better girls.—And then, there’s Lorie. I tell you, Peter, I’m not your sort—please, please stop caring for me.”

The gladness died in him. It was as though the lamps behind his eyes had guttered out. His voice trembled. His face had grown lean and sad. “Don’t say that, Cherry—it keeps us separate. You don’t love me now, perhaps; but one day you’ll need me. I’m waiting till you need me, and then——. You are my sort, Cherry; but I’ll never be good enough for you. All the time I’m trying, ever since I’ve known you I’ve been trying to become better. It’s like yesterday: whenever I’m losing the race and getting slack I hear you calling. Then I say to myself, ‘I have to be fine for her.’ I think you must be my sort, Cherry, if you can do that. Love was meant not to make people perfect, but to make them believe always in the best. If you do that for me, Cherry——.”

She put her hands before her eyes and slipped back against the cushions, as though she had become very tired. He stole down the punt noiselessly and knelt beside her.

“Don’t you like to be loved, Cherry?”

She spoke, still with her eyes covered. “Of course I like to be loved. Every girl likes to know that some man cares for her.”

“Then, why——?”

Her voice came wearily. “Because it would be selfish, when I don’t intend to marry you. But—but I wish I didn’t have to keep away from you.”

He leant forward and kissed her cool cheek. “Then don’t keep away from me.”

“You mustn’t kiss me, Peter. If only you wouldn’t kiss me directly we’re alone——. Why do you?”

Why did he? That she could ask such a question told him so much. She was like a beautiful statue; he could stir no life in her.

“Everybody’s done it,” he said simply; “everybody since the world began. You can’t help it when you love anybody.”

She withdrew her hand from her eyes and looked at him wonderingly. How quickly she could change from sad to gay! All of a sudden, from seeming listless and spent, she had become radiant and virile. Her face was tender and wore an amused expression. She stooped toward him and touched him. “Still a little boy! For the first time I feel older than you—so much older. What good times you and I could have if only we didn’t think ahead.”

He slipped his arm about her. “Dear little Cherry, you want to be loved, but you won’t believe that I’m your man. You won’t let yourself love me—that’s all that’s the matter. When I kiss you you turn your face away, as if you were only enduring me.”

She thrust her face forward with sweet demureness. “Try again.—I didn’t turn away then.—You’re so persistent, Peter. No, that’s’enough.”

He pushed out from the rushes. The sun was tumbling into bed, spreading his gold hair on the pillow and dragging his scarlet bed-clothes over him. The river was dull as tarnished silver, but it flared crimson where, in its windings, the west smote it.

“And to-morrow, Cherry?”

“To-morrow! Does it ever come? I’m leaving to-night. I promised you to-day; you’ve had it.”

“But I want to-morrow as well.”

She shook her head, laughing. “If I gave you to-morrow, you’d ask for the day after. You’re a greedy little boy, never contented.”

“But why must you go?” he asked.

“Because I’m expected. Lorie’s thinking of buying a place called Tree-Tops; it’s at Curious Corner, near a village called Whitesheaves. He’s heard all kinds of splendid things about it. It’s only thirty miles from Oxford, so——.”

“So we’ll meet quite often?”

She crouched her face against her shoulder and kept him waiting. “If you don’t try to kiss me,” she said. And then, seeing that he was going to be melancholy, “You never know your luck. Cheer up!”

At the barges, when they had stepped out, Peter remembered. He turned to the barge-man, “Mr. Hardcastle back? I don’t see his punt.”

“‘Asn’t returned as I know of, Mr. Barrington. ‘Ad a lady with ‘im, didn’t ‘e? Any message for ‘im when ‘e comes?”

Peter shook his head. It was growing dusk. Walking up through the meadows, Cherry let him take her hand.

When they had fetched her luggage from the house in the little courtyard, and he had seen her off at the station, he hurried down to Folly Bridge and along the tow-path. Staring across the river to the Calvary Barge, he could see someone moving. He called. A punt put out; when it came alongside, the man looked up through the darkness.

“Can’t take you across to-night, sir. Wouldn’t be no use; the meadow-gates is shut.”

“It’s not that,” said Peter; “I only wanted to find out if Mr. Hardcastle’s come back.”

The man scratched his head. “Not yet, sir. Reckon he must ‘a left ‘is punt higher up—by Magdalen Bridge, perhaps.”

“Perhaps. Well, it doesn’t matter.”

He strolled away thoughtfully.