She laughed. “I suppose it's a trifle too late to say I'm sorry. I don't suppose you minded much.” She waited for him to contradict that; when he didn't she continued, “How much do you know about me? For instance, what's my real name?” He laughed in return. “You've got me there. All you told me was that people called you Cherry, because your lips were red.” She sank her head between her shoulders; then she looked up flushing and pursing her lips together, like a child who wants to extract a favor by being loved. “Be a sportsman. You're awfully tantalizing. Give me a pointer that'll help me to guess. You know, I ought to know who you are; it isn't good form for a girl to take tea with a strange young man.” “Well,” he said, speaking slowly, “do you remember a day when you knocked down and walked over, oh, let's say about twenty photographs of the same lady?” “Do I remember!” She sniffed a little scornfully. “'Tisn't likely I'd forget; that was why the Faun Man sent me to a convent.” She had said rather more than she intended. She was provoked with herself and with Peter, for the moment, because he had drawn her out. She twisted round on her chair, so that he could see only her shoulders. Not realizing that he was being snubbed, he pushed the subject further, “What an unfair punishment! That doesn't sound like the Faun Man. But, perhaps, you liked it. What did you do at the convent?” “Always praying,” she answered, with her shoulders still toward him. “And, look here, don't you say that the Faun Man was unfair. He wasn't. He didn't send me away only for breaking his pictures.” And then, inconsequently, “If it wasn't too childish I'd go and smash them all afresh.” Suddenly she swung round, “I know who you are. Hurray! You're Peter. You see, I remember the name. Shall I give myself away and tell you why I remember?” “Do. Do,” he urged. The answer came promptly. “Because you paid me compliments. You thought that God said to Himself when He made me, 'I'll make the most beautiful person I've ever made.'--Hulloa! You don't like that. It wasn't quite what you expected. What did you expect? Until you tell me I won't speak to you.” Compelled by her silence, he confessed, “I did hope that you might have remembered me for something--something more romantic. You see, we met in the Haunted Wood, and there was the river, and you were going to drown yourself. You'd taken off your shoes and stockings as a first step, which was very economical of you. And I--I saw your feet, and----” She waved her handkerchief at him, her eyes a-sparkle. “I know. I know. Very pretty and very foolish!” She rose. “We ought to be going.” Outside the Red Lion, she turned toward the river; “I left my boat at one of the landings.” When they had found it and he had helped her in, she said, “You can row, I suppose? All right, then, I'll steer; you take the sculls.”