Because secrecy adds to happiness, Kay and Peter told no one of their discovery. In the early morning they would tricycle out through red-brick suburbs, where nurse-girls wheeled fretful babies in prams and wondered what love meant. Having spent their day in fairyland, they would tricycle back through those same brick suburbs where tethered people found romance in twilit reality. They almost feared to speak aloud of their doings, lest speech should break the spell--lest, were they to tell, they might search in vain for Friday Lane, Canute, and Harry of the mouth-organ, and find them vanished. On their first visits they did not meet the Faun Man; in proportion as they failed to meet him, they grew more curious about him. Sometimes they were quite certain he was there, but Harry---- He was strangely reluctant to share him--as reluctant as Peter was to share his sister. And yet, in-all the rest of his secrets he was generous. He showed them how to find beneath stones in the river the homes of fishes--tiny fellows, who darted away with agitated tails the moment you took the roofs off their houses. And he showed them how you could make whistles out of boughs, if you chose the right ones. He taught them to mimick the notes of birds, so that they would follow through the woods, answering and hopping, twisting from side to side their perky heads. He was the Pied Piper of the open world, and willing to make them his confederates. “Where--where did you learn?” They asked him. Sometimes he looked away from them, narrowing his eyes; sometimes he answered, “The Faun Man--he taught me.” So the Faun Man became a kind of god, whose handiwork was seen in many wonders, but who never showed himself. It was a scorching afternoon. In London water-carts were going up and down; the less refined portion of mankind had removed their collars and had knotted handkerchiefs about their necks. Along Green Lanes and as far as Jolly Butcher's Hill, costers tempted villadom to extravagance, crying, “Strarberries. Fresh strarberries,” in voices grown cracked from over-use and thirst. It made one's throat dry to listen to them. The tricycle seemed to feel its weight of years; despite frequent oiling, it insisted on running heavily. At Aunt Jehane's house they halted for a rest; then, on again. The country drowsed: big trees in the meadows seemed to fold their hands; birds had hidden themselves; there was scarcely a sound.