The Faun Man spread out his long legs, laughing uproariously; until the appearance of the children, he'd been most scrupulously conventional and polite. “But, Peter, an immortal friendship like ours cut short by a tandem trike! You little donkey, why didn't you write?” Kay rose up in her brother's defence. “He isn't a little donkey. We were all to be pretence people, don't you remember? We didn't know your address.” The Faun Man stroked his chin and lengthened his face. “If you'd left me alone much longer,” he said, “you wouldn't have found me; I'm moving into London.” Then their parents began to ask questions; the story of Friday Lane and the mouth-organ boy came out. That evening, after Lorenzo Arran had said good-by, he turned back to his host, just as the door was closing. “Oh, I say! One minute, Barrington. That matter we were discussing yesterday--let's consider it settled.” Barrington watched the tall, lean figure go striding down the Terrace. He was so taken up with watching, that he didn't know that Nan had stolen up behind him until she touched his hand. He turned; his mouth was crooked with amusement. “Did you hear that? He agrees--I'm to publish for him. And it's Peter's doing. One never knows where that boy won't turn up.” And Peter, snuggled cosily in bed, was wondering whether, now that he'd found the Faun Man, he'd refind Cherry. He reflected that when life could play such tricks on you, a lifetime of it wouldn't be half bad. He was no longer frightened to remember that, whether he liked it or not, he must grow up. CHAPTER XXIX--A GOLDEN WORLD And he refound her, when he had almost forgotten her. In those four long years, which stretch like a magic ocean between the island of boyhood and the misty coasts of early manhood, it is so easy to forget. Those years, between fifteen and nineteen, are the longest in life, perhaps. They had been spent by Peter among books, watching, as in a wizard's crystal, the dead world-builders at work; they had risen from their graves in the dusk of his imagination, stretched themselves, gathered strength and marched anew to the downfall of Troy and the conquest of befabled empires. How real those poignant religions were, telling of the loves of ruffianly gods for perishable earth-maidens--so real to him that he had paid little heed to the present. In his outward life nothing had much altered; things were called by different names. They spoke of him as nearly a man now--servants addressed him as “sir”; they had never doubted that he was a boy once. Kay stood a few inches higher on her legs. Romance had retired from active business, leaving to her children the unthankful task of having kittens.