She seemed to forget the words and hummed; but, as she came to the end of the air, she crouched her chin against her shoulder, looking back at him naughtily, “I love you and like you In--oh, anything at all.” They walked by the muffled river; trees were reflected so clearly on its surface that it was easy to mistake illusion for reality. Everything was asleep or listless in the summer sun. They came to a point where they ferried across. They entered Kew Gardens and sauntered into the Palace for coolness. They didn't care where their feet led them; all the while they talked--about life, love, men and women, but really, under the disguise of words, about Cherry and the Faun Man. In her company he had found a sudden relief from suspense. She was so smiling, so generous, and at times so anxious to be reckless, like a clever child saying slant-eyed things of which the meaning was half-guessed. He was elated to be seen with her; she was rare and beautiful. Toward evening he turned back from the land of stately trees and grass-pavements to the clamor of the perturbed and narrow city. The river was a thread of gold; the sun foundered red in a crimson sea of cloud. The thread of gold broadened as bridges grew more frequent; black wharfs took the place of meadows and sat huddled along the banks like homeless beggars. But it was the majesty, not the meanness of London, that impressed him. His eyes were on the horizon, where the lace-work tower of Westminster shot up, sculptured and ethereal, and still further beyond where, above herded roofs, the dome of St. Paul's protruded like a woman's breast. He landed at Westminster Bridge and ran up the steps. What a different world! How many hours was it since he had been there? He had recovered his sense of life's magic. The tethered man in the ticket-office eyed him gloomily. “Still in a hurry,” he thought, “and with all the years of life before him. Ugh!” That afternoon was the pattern of many that followed. He came from London to Kew, simply and solely that he might speak about Cherry, and always with the hope that he might gain some news of her. Subtly the golden woman would lead the conversation round to herself. It was only at parting that he would discover this. Once he said, laughingly, “Why, we've spent all our time in talking about you!” Then he stopped, for he saw that he had not pleased her. “Next time it shall be all about Cherry,” he told himself; but it wasn't. He had never had a woman consult him before about her dress and the styles of doing her hair. The golden woman did; she made him tell her just what he preferred. When he met her, she came to express a part of his personality. In the intimacy which grew up between them, the small reserves of pride and reticence were broken down. They spoke their minds aloud. “I'm getting old, Peter,” she would say. But this was only on the days when she looked youngest.