For the world, war went on; but for Peter it had stopped dead. He saw it from afar: spectator and not participant. His lack of interest in it amazed him almost as much as the glorious credulity of the civilians with whom he occasionally discussed its official versions—perversions. Finally, in a fit of ungovernable annoyance over a picture of “cheery wounded” after the battle of Messines, he barred the topic altogether. Patricia made no objection; but the children demurred furiously. “If Daddy isn’t going to tell us about killing Germans,” threatened Primula one evening, “I shall refuse to go to sleep.” “You bloodthirsty little wretch,” began Peter; and till their mother intervened, “bloodthirsty” became _the_ school-room adjective. However, Evelyn and Primula’s passion for the word “bloodthirsty” paled into insignificance at the coming of Peter’s brother Arthur. Arthur had “got a job” at the Godstone flying-school; and you never knew, as you sat at lessons or romped in the garden, what particular moment might not bring the drone of Arthur’s engine, high up in the air, like an enormous bee. He used to come swooping across country, from behind the trees at the back of the paddock; and you could always tell if it were Uncle Arthur because _his_ engine made a funny noise—buzz, stop, buzz, stop, buzz—when he meant to land in Tebbits’ pasture. Once, too, Uncle Arthur stunted, really “stunted,” for nearly twenty minutes, miles up, right over the roof. . . . But Arthur never repeated that blissful performance; his “falling leaf” proving too much for Peter’s nerves. “You neurasthenic old idiot,” growled the flying man, “there’s no danger at all. One just shuts off the engine. . . .” “I know all about that,” said Peter, “but to see you turning over and over sideways frightens me out of my wits. Besides, if anything happened, you’d be court-martialled.” “By the Archangel Gabriel, I suppose,” grinned Arthur; and soared off into the blue. “Now that,” thought Peter, “is a man’s life. Whereas mine.” . . . And again depression gripped him. § 3 May come gloriously. Hawthorn hedges donned their ruddiest coral; orchard foamed below the gravel terrace; wild cherry spangled blossom against the greenery of new-leaved beech woods beyond the paddock. Peter didn’t care. Frankly, he was bored to tears. He wanted something to do. He missed his horses. If you couldn’t hunt in May, at least you could ride. What _did_ one do with oneself in the country during that rotten month, May? Fish perhaps? He dallied a day with his trout-rod, unearthed some rather dingy flies; hired a push-bike in Arlsfield (Peter detested Arlsfield); and cycled to Henley. The may-fly was on the water; not a fish would bite. Fish on the lower Thames rarely _do_ bite. Still, that day re-introduced him to the river.