"Here," said I to myself, "here is Common-sense in the shape of a half-witted peddling fellow, blundering into Arcadia, in the shape of a haunted cottage, a woman, and a man. Straightway our Pedler, being Common-sense, misjudges us—as, indeed, would every other common-sense individual the world over; for Arcadia, being of itself abstract and immaterial, is opposed to, and incapable of being understood by concrete common-sense, and always will be—and there's the rub! And yet," said I, "thanks to the Wanderer of the Roads, who built this cottage and hanged himself here, and thanks to a Highland Scot who performed wonderfully on the bagpipes, there is little chance of any common-sense vagrant venturing near Arcadia again—at least until the woman is gone, or the man is gone, or—" Here, going to rub my chin (being somewhat at a loss), I found that I had been standing, all this while, the broom in one hand and the belt in the other, and now, hearing a laugh behind me, I turned, and saw Charmian was leaning in the open doorway watching me. "And so you are the—the cove—with the white hands and the taking ways, are you, Peter?" "Why—you were actually—listening then?" "Why, of course I was." "That," said I, "that was very—undignified!" "But very—feminine, Peter!" Hereupon I threw the belt from me one way, and the broom the other, and sitting down upon the bench began to fill any pipe rather awkwardly, being conscious of Charmian's mocking scrutiny. "Poor—poor Black George!" she sighed. "What do you mean by that?" said I quickly. "Really I can almost understand his being angry with you." "Why?" "You walked with her, and talked with her, Peter—like Caesar, 'you came, you saw, you conquered'!" Here I dragged my tinder-box from my pocket so awkwardly as to bring the lining with it. "And—even smiled at her, Peter—and you so rarely smile!" Having struck flint and steel several times without success, I thrust the tinder-box back into my pocket and fixed my gaze upon the moon. "Is she so very pretty, Peter?" I stared up at the moon without answering. "I wonder if you bother her with your Epictetus and—and dry-as-dust quotations?" I bit my lips and stared up at the moon. "Or perhaps she likes your musty books and philosophy?" But presently, finding that I would not speak, Charmian began to sing, very sweet and low, as if to herself, yet, when I chanced to glance towards her, I found her mocking eyes still watching me. Now the words of her song were these: "O, my luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June; O, my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly played in tune." And so, at last, unable to bear it any longer, I rose and, taking my candle, went into my room and closed the door. But I had been there scarcely five minutes when Charmian knocked. "Oh, Peter! I wish to speak to you—please." Obediently I opened the door. "What is it, Charmian?"