He fell upon his food ravenously. In his eating, as in his way of talking, there was something inhuman, something--yes, lonely was the word. Slowly it was coming home to Peter that through all these years, while he had been housed, and safeguarded, and attended with affection, this man had been used like an animal. He was repelled and filled with compassion. He wanted to escape; he was unmanned. The dusk was falling. “I'll be back in a moment. Order what you like,” he said. In the fragile darkness he clenched his hands. Last night he had been so happy! How had he dared to be happy? He recalled the jolly buffoonery of Henley--the songs they had sung, the swaying of lanterns, the swan-like gliding of punts, the muffled laughter, the hint of stolen kisses. And all the while this man had been lonely; and his chief fault had been the fault of others--that he had not been allowed to love. Peter found himself walking across the Heath, following no path. Now and then the rough ground tripped him and he stumbled. He couldn't bear the reproach of that--that thing that had once been a man, that had no courage left to accuse anybody. Peter felt as though he himself were responsible, as though he had done it. He lifted his eyes to the stars. Indifferent and placid, stretched out on the blue-black couch of heaven, they stared back at him and told him cantingly: “God's in His Heaven, All's right with the world.” He shook his fist at them. That was the trouble. God was too much in His Heaven. He felt that he could never again be happy. The image of Cherry grew up--Cherry with her red mouth. God had made her, as well. He unclenched his hands and stood puzzled. God had made her, as well! The golden panes of the inn shone and winked at him; he retraced his steps. The man still wore his hat, but----. Alcohol had changed him from a thing limp and hopeless into Ocky Waffles. As Peter entered he staggered to his feet with both hands held out. “Why, if it isn't the ha'penny marvel. God bless me, how he's grown. Quite a man, Peter! Quite a man!” He put his lips against Peter's ear. “Mustn't tell anybody. They wouldn't understand. Have to keep it on.” He pointed to his hat. “Been away for a rest cure--you and I know where. Had brain fever. Had to cut my hair. It isn't pretty.” Then, in a lower voice, “Mustn't tell anybody. You won't split on me?” For the first time Peter was delighted to find his uncle drunk. He assured him that he wouldn't split on him. “Shake hands, old son; it's a compack. Cur'ous! Here's all this great world and only I and you know about it. Makes me laugh. Our little joke, isn't it?” Peter took the whisky bottle from him. “You don't want any more of that.” The trembling hand groped after it; the weak mouth quivered. “Just to forget. Just to make me forget. Don't be hard on poor old Ocky Waffles. Everyone's been hard on Ocky Waffles.”