"I am learning the art of working in iron, Anthony, and of making and mending kettles--" "Gad--a tinker, Perry?" "Yes. And I am living in a wood with one Jerry Jarvis, Jessamy Todd, and Diana--" "The famous Jessamy?" "Yes. He is instructing me in the noble art." "Good heavens! And your--your people?" "They perforce acquiesce." "In--in everything, Perry--your marriage?" "What else can they do?" "And when you are married, how shall you live?" "Travel the country tinkering with Jerry--or buy a cottage until I come into my property." "And then, Perry?" "I--don't know. You see, Anthony, if--if the people in our world should make any difficulty about the pure angel who will be my wife, well, I'll see the people of our world damned and go back to my cottage." "No, you shall come to us, Perry, to Barbara and me, we shall always be proud and happy to welcome you both--in country or town and as for--your Diana, such beauty may surely go anywhere, and my Barbara is in love with her already, 'egad. Look at 'em, Perry, look at 'em! Did ever eyes behold two such gloriously handsome creatures?" Thus we talked of things that had been and of things that were to be, making many plans for the future, a future which, by reason of youth and love, stretched before each one of us in radiant perspective. So we talked and laughed, finding joy in all things, more especially in each other and were all a little sorry, I think, when the ambling Diogenes brought us to Hadlow at last. And here, at the "Bear" we sat down to a merry meal that ended all too soon. "Good-bye--oh, good-bye, dearest Diana!" sighed Barbara a little tearfully, as she leaned from the chaise for a last caress. "If I have learned to love you so quickly don't let it seem strange--it is just because you are Diana--and I have so few friends, and none like you. So be my friend, Diana, will you, dear--and when you are married bring your husband to see us in London--or wherever we happen to be, only--oh, be my friend, because--I love you." "I will," said Diana, "your friend always, because--I love you too." So the chaise rolled away. And presently Diana and I jogged camp-wards behind Diogenes, through an evening fragrant with new-mown hay; from tree and hedgerow birds were singing their vesper hymn and we drove awhile in wistful silence. But suddenly Diana turned and caught my hand so that I wondered at the eager clasp of these fingers and the tremulous yearning in her voice when she spoke. "O Peregrine--oh, my dear--if only God would make me--like her--a lady--like Barbara. Do you think He would if--I pray--very hard?" "Of course!" said I, kissing her hand. "Though, indeed--" "Then I will, dear Peregrine--this very night--and every night." CHAPTER XXXVII A DISQUISITION ON TRUE LOVE