If he had no money, he would tell her; then, she would either pay or they would make their pleasures inexpensive. He regarded her as a sister older than himself. “What shall I call you?” he asked her. “Haven't you noticed that I have no name for you?” She slipped her arm into his. “The golden woman. I like that. It's you--it has the touch of poetry.” “I gave you that name,” he said, “the moment I saw you--years ago, at the Happy Cottage.” She opened her eyes wide, pretending to be offended. “Years ago! How cruel! Years ago to you; but to me not so long ago--four years, wasn't it? Why do you say things that make me feel ancient?” “When you're beautiful----.” He got no farther; his tongue stumbled at compliments. He was going to have said that, when you were very beautiful, years didn't matter. She caught at his words. “Then you think I'm beautiful?” “Think, indeed!” “As beautiful as Cherry?” He avoided answering, saying instead, “See how everyone turns to look after you.” She fell silent, only to return to the topic long after he had forgotten it. “Yes, they look after me and go away. That isn't like having someone with you always.” She could make him feel very unhappy--more unhappy than anyone he had ever met. She could say such lonely things, and almost as though he were to blame for her loneliness. She could talk exquisitely of love and little children. He wondered why the Faun Man hadn't married her. One afternoon he had stopped longer than usual. They had walked through Kew Gardens, and had sat in a teagarden watching the trippers. It had been one of their gay days, when they had built up absurd philosophies. She had told him that all that any woman could love was the sixth part of any man--all the other five-sixths were distasteful. Her idea was that every woman should be allowed to have six husbands; then, by taking what she liked out of each of them, she would have one perfect man. They had dawdled in the tea-garden out of compassion, rescuing wasps with teaspoons from drowning in the jam. When they rose to go, evening was gathering. On the bridge they paused, gazing down at the gray creeping of the river and the slow drifting of the boats. Suddenly she reverted from gay to sad. “If I were old, Peter, you wouldn't come to see me so often. One day, though I try to fight it off, one day I shall be old.” At the gate, in the wistful twilight, she lifted up her face. “If I were to ask you to kiss me, would you?” “I think I would.” But she didn't ask him.