And he returned the question. She leant her head away from him on her shoulder. “What do you think they call me? What name would suit me best? But you'd never guess. They call me Cherry, because my lips are red.” Cherry, because her lips were red! And who were _they_, who had called her that? He felt jealous of them. _They_ knew so much about her; he knew nothing. And here was the supreme marvel, that for years she had been walking in the same world and, until now, he had found no hint of her. He might have passed her in the street--might have come often within touching distance of her. Some of this he tried to say to her; she listened with a faint smile about her mouth. He fell silent, fearing that he had amused her by his sentiment. She patted his hand. “D'you know, you're rather wonderful? You put such private thoughts into words. Do you always think behind things like that?” Without waiting for him to reply, she continued, “But you never passed me in the street. You couldn't have met me any earlier, because I've lived always in America. I was born there. That's where I met----.” She did not name the Faun Man, but her face clouded. “I must be getting back,” she ended vaguely. Outside the wood he would lose her--lose her because she had belonged to other people first. He would become again a schoolboy, tricycling out into the country with Kay. It would take years to become a man. She stood up. “You must go now.” How sweet and slight she looked, like a tall white flower swaying in the shadows. He had read in books of spirit-women who, in the bygone days of romance, had lifted up their faces from amid the bracken to lure knights aside from their quest; and the knights, having once kissed them, had lost them and hungered for their lips forever. He wanted to speak--wanted to say something true, wanted to tell her of this dynamic change that she had worked for him. All that he could say was, “Cherry”; and then, “But how shall I find you?” “Find me!” she laughed, tiptoeing on her bare feet with her hands clasped behind her head. “Oh, you'll find me,” she nodded. “But promise.” She half-closed her eyes, as though tired by his urgency. Then she threw her hands to her side. “I like you, Peter. I promise.” Picking up her shoes and stockings she pushed back the bushes. “You're not to follow.” He listened. Was she standing there, hidden by the screen of leaves? He had not heard the rustle of her going. Suddenly the branches were thrust back, and again he saw her. Her eyes were alight with merriment and her mouth was puckered. “Oh, little Peter, if you'd only been older----” Like a secret door in a green wall closing, the branches swished back. The wood muttered to itself as she went from him, and then fell so silent that it seemed to stand with its finger pressed against its mouth. CHAPTER XXVIII--WAKING UP