While they ate he hovered round them, continually inventing excuses to interrupt their privacy. He reminded them of the magpie in his frank display of curiosity. He informed them that trade was wery bad. He'd 'arf a mind to try 'is luck in Australy. If it weren't for the young bloods from Henley, he'd 'ardly take a 'appeny from month to month. Did they know of anyone, an artist chap for h'instance, who'd like to combine pleasure with business by tryin' his 'and at runnin' a nice pub? An artist chap could paint that bloomin' bird out, and call the place The White Hart or somethin' h'attractive. Whoever 'eard of an inn payin' which was called The Winged Thrush? People didn't want their meals messed about by a bloomin' poet. Not but what the sitiyation was so pleasant that he'd tried to write poetry 'isself--love-poetry for the most part. His verses allaws came to 'im when 'e were groomin' the 'orses. If things didn't brisk up, 'e'd give Australy a chance, as 'e'd many times promised. At last he left them. Cherry gazed out dreamily across the river. “I wonder, is it true that one has always to pay with sorrow for happiness?” Peter shivered. How old she could be when she chose to borrow other people's disillusions! He tried to restore her to cheerfulness. “What a pagan notion! It's the old idea of the gods being jealous. You shouldn't think such thoughts.” “But happiness does bring sorrow,” she insisted. “We shall have to pay for this to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.” Her voice trailed off, giving him a vision of all the tomorrows when he would be without her. And he wasn't sure of her. She had told him that she didn't love him. He drew her closer. “But a sorrow's crown of sorrows is to have no happier things to remember--to be old and never to have been young, to be lonely and never to have been loved. You mournful little person, do you think you'd be any happier because you'd never known happiness?” “I don't know.” She shrugged her shoulders with a touch of defiance. “I'm not clever; I can't argue.” Then, her face clearing as suddenly as it had clouded, “I can't think why you like me, Peter.” He laughed gladly. “And I can't tell you, Cherry. It's as though I'd waited for you always, without knowing for whom I was waiting. I was a kind of winged thrush in a golden cage; but you've opened the door, now you've come.” His explanation wasn't sufficient. She snuggled her chin against the back of her hand and watched him seriously, as though she suspected him of hiding something. “But what is it that you like most about me?”