Peter wanted to be out there--wanted to go to her. For the first time in a year he had seen her. Strange how little he had forgotten! He half-closed his eyes, picturing and remembering: her nun-like trick of carrying her hands against her breast; the way her voice slurred; her meek appearance of gay piety, which the red defiance of her mouth and the challenge of her eyes denied. She was a girl-woman, borrowing the attitudes of sophistication, yet exquisitely young and poignantly ignorant of the world. He hadn't been able to say much to her--only, “I heard you, Cherry”; to which she, shy in the presence of his parents, had replied, “I'm glad. I was afraid--so afraid that you wouldn't win the race.” They had walked up through the meadows, all of them together; he, with his mother and Kay on either side; she, between his father and the Faun Man. He had heard her tripping footsteps following behind. At the college-gate he had said, “I'll see you again”; and she, “Perhaps.” No more than that. He had not dared to appoint a place of meeting; his parents didn't know--they wouldn't understand. Then he had had to run off to change for dinner. She might be leaving early to-morrow. Did she care for him? She had seemed more sorry for him, more as though she were trying to be kind to him than in love with him. She was non-committal, elusive. But she was in Oxford to-night. Where, and with whom? All down the long hall they were pushing back their chairs, struggling up from tables and tumbling out into the cool twilight. Men were hurrying to their rooms to put on their oldest clothes; there was going to be a “rag.” A piano struck up; then ceased suddenly. A groping of feet in the darkness of a wooden staircase! From one of the doorways a jostling, shouting crowd emerged. The piano was set down in the open quad; a chair was tossed out of a window. Harry took his seat at the key-board and commenced jingling over the air of, “What, never been born on a Friday yet, when your mother wasn't at home!” Several of the crew seized Peter and hoisted him on to the top of the piano. He stood there an unwilling statue on a burlesque pedestal. They joined hands and danced about him in a circle. Then came the old wander-song of his childhood, bringing thoughts of her and of the Happy Cottage, “I've been shipwrecked off Patagonia.” Harry shouldn't have played that. A new diversion! They took him by the arms and ran him away: others followed, staggering under the weight of the piano. Through a passage a red glow grew up. In a neighboring quad a bon-fire had been kindled. It wasn't high enough, broad enough, big enough--wasn't worthy of the occasion. From windows, two and three stories up, men leant out and hurled down furniture. Very often it wasn't their furniture. Who cared? The sky rained desks, and chairs, and tables. Singing and shouting everywhere! An impromptu loving-cup was drunk, composed of anything alcoholic that came handy.