Hardcastle was a guest. Riska was seated next to him; beneath the surface of what others were saying, they carried on a softly spoken conversation, private to themselves. Riska's piquant face was alive with interest. Every now and then she laughed and clapped her hands, shaking her head incredulously, stooping her shoulders and glancing sideways at Hardcastle. They might have been old friends. Her color came and went when she found herself observed; behind her apparent artlessness there lay a calm and determined self-possession. Peter took his place between Kay and his mother. “Happy Peterkins,” Kay whispered; “your face is--is a lamp.” She squeezed his hand. He was silent and excited, impatient for the next two hours to end. Sometimes his thoughts were in the sun-swept street, hurrying to a little courtyard, where a window stood wide and the echoes of Oxford ran together. Sometimes his attention was caught by a remark, as when the Professor turned to his wife, who had just sat down, and said, “Oh, Agnes, while you're up----” and she replied, “But, Benares, I'm not up.” His mother watched him, noticing the gladness in his eyes. She wondered what it meant. Glory, lifting her face to his, gazed at him furtively from beneath her lashes. They had gone upstairs to the room from which Jehane had looked down on Barrington. Peter had said, “There was a nightingale singing. Did any of you hear it?” and Glory was about to answer, when the prancing of hoofs drew them crowding to the window--it was a coach setting out for London. On the box sat the Faun Man, reining in and steadying the chestnut four-in-hand. The roof was a garden--river-hats and girls' faces; every seat was taken. As they came clattering up the cobbled street, the horn was blowing merrily. Peter took one glance, and was racing down the stairs. The watchers at the window saw him dash out, sprint hatless to the corner and vanish. The Faun Man pulled up. “Hulloa, Peter! Searched for you all over college. They said you'd gone out to brekker. Want to come with us? We'll find room for you.” Peter wasn't looking at the Faun Man, nor at Harry, who sat behind him. He wasn't looking at the golden woman, who was trying to catch his attention. He was looking at Cherry. Her place was on the box, to the right of the Faun Man. She returned his gaze with laughter at first; then, because he didn't laugh back, she turned away her head. And Peter--he was puzzled and hurt. Why was she escaping? She had promised. And why, when she was escaping, did she wear his rose against her breast? “Going to London!” he said slowly. “No, I can't join you.” He swung round and was walking away. Harry called after him, “We're not going to London, you chump. We're only going as far as High Wycombe to look at a house. Climb aboard, and buck up.”