“_Let's forget_.” The words rang in his ears. They tormented him. They made him both sad and angry. They seemed to treat all love as a flirtation, as a stroll beneath the stars which must end. He didn't want an ending--couldn't conceive that it was possible. Was she heartless or--or had she mistaken him? Was it that she didn't understand love's finality? Or that she did understand, and was frightened? Or--and this was the doubt that haunted him most--that she didn't really like him? Putney! Mortlake! Racing-shells skimming the surface of the water! Bridges wading from bank to bank! Bathing boys who stood up naked, waving to the passing steamer! Then Kew, green and somnolent, with its plumed trees and low-browed houses. Peter landed. The crowd melted, breaking up into couples who wandered off, purposeless and happy. They had only escaped from London that they might be alone together. Should they go to the Botanical Gardens? Oh, yes. Anywhere--it didn't matter. Anywhere, so long as they could sit together and hold hands. He crossed the bridge; stopped a stranger and asked a question; turned along the bank and came to a house, little more than a cottage--a nest tucked away amid shrubs and trees, with the river in view. Like the frill on a woman's dress, a green verandah ran round it. Everything was cool and neat and hushed. The bushes were trim and orderly. The gravel-path had been smoothly raked--not a stone was awry. Flowers stood sweetly demure, in rows like school-girls awaiting a good conduct prize and trying to forget that they had ever been hoydens. On the lawn an automatic sprinkler was at work, revolving slowly and throwing up a cloud of spray. As he approached the porch, misty with wistaria and passion-flowers, he searched the windows for signs of life. They were so clear that they seemed to be without panes, giving direct entrance to the pleasant rooms inside. They seemed to say, “We have nothing to hide--nothing.” Brasses shone as brightly as a more precious metal. The door lent a virginal touch of whiteness. He rang the bell and heard a faint tinkle, then the rustling of skirts, accompanied by prim footsteps. A severely attired maid admitted him. He gazed round the room into which he was shown. Books, artistically bound, lay on the table. Everything gave evidence of fastidiousness and taste--of a certain remoteness from the everyday jostle of life. Above an inlaid desk stood a portrait, silverframed. Out of curiosity Peter tiptoed over; the Faun Man gazed out at him with laughing eyes. Lying open on the desk was a well-thumbed volume, small and bound like a Bible. A passage was underscored, which read, “Thou must be lord and master of thine own actions, and not a slave or hireling.” Turning to the title-page, he found that it was _The Imitation of Christ_. A voice behind him said, “Ah, so you've discovered me!”