He drew himself up, afraid she might suspect him of spying. “I--I was interested by the words you'd underlined. I wanted to see who wrote them. I oughtn't to have----” She laughed softly, shrugging her shoulders. She was all in white--lazy, splendid and vital. “My Loo-ard! Don't apologize. You were surprised. I don't blame you.” She nodded her head like a knowing child. “Oh, yes, Peter, the golden woman reads books like that sometimes.” She took his hands in hers and drew him over to a sofa, making him sit down beside her. “And now, what have you come to tell me?” He recovered from his confusion and surrendered, as all men did, to her graciousness. “That it's ripping to see you. But--but how did you know I called you the golden woman?” “Lorie--he tells me everything.” She leant back her long fine throat, pillowing her head against the cushions. “You must never trust him with any of your secrets, if you don't want me to---- Now, what is it that you've come to tell me?” “Then, you know----?” He hesitated. The confession to him was sacred; there was amusement in her eyes. “Then you know about me and Cherry?” He was sure she did. She had greeted him as though his visit had been long expected. She placed her cool fingers about his wrist and bent her head nearer. Her voice was low, and caressing--the voice of one who breaks bad news gently. “I know. You told her that you loved her.---- Why didn't you come to me sooner?” She was looking sorry for him. “Why sooner?” he questioned. “Because she's gone away.” It was almost as though she had told him that Cherry had died. “Away? Where to?” “I don't know. Lorie didn't say; he took her. Perhaps, to the convent. Poor little girl, you--you frightened her, Peter.” He was all amazement. What a contrast there was between these two! The boy so inexperienced and crestfallen; the golden woman so wise and quiet. “Yes, _you_, Peter. You're so natural and uncivilized. You were too sudden with her. You told her that you loved her just as a child would--directly you felt it. You wanted to kiss her without waste of time. You galloped too fast, Peter; you tried to take all the fences at one stride.” Her voice grew more tender; she folded her hands in her lap, looking away from him, straight before her. “You're--you're the sort of lover we older women dream of when the hour's gone by. The men who come to us are too cautious; they watch for the lines in our faces. They've learnt to play safe. But you, with your glorious youth----! And she didn't recognize it--didn't know what you were offering.” The blue eyes came back slowly to his face. She ended, “And so, she's gone away.” Peter felt unhappy and yet comforted. She had envied him something of which he had been ashamed--the unavoidable indiscretion of his lack of age. She had called it glorious; she hadn't thought it foolish. “But what must I do? Will she--will she come back again? Will she understand, one day, the way you do?”