They set out in two punts from the barges. The Professor and his wife had excused themselves, saying that they had to work. Hardcastle took charge of Glory and Riska; Peter of the rest. They turned up the Cherwell, past the Botanical Gardens, through Mesopotamia, coming at last to Parsons' Pleasure. The sound of bathers on the other side of the island warned them. The ladies got out, while the men drew the punts across the rollers, taking them round to the farther landing. Barrington accompanied Nan by the footpath. Directly they were alone she turned to him, “Is there anything between them?” “Between who?” “That girl and Peter?” Her husband laughed and held her arm more firmly, “Between her and Peter! What an idea! Match-maker!” Nan leant against him, as if seeking his protection. “Match-maker? Not that. I dread it. I want to keep them with us, Kay and Peter, always--always.” Tears were in her eyes. He remembered; once before in this place he had seen her like that. “Have you forgotten?” he said. “It was here that it all began--everything between us. It was after we three had met--a rainy day, with the sun coming out. I left you to take the punt round the island, and Jehane said something behind my back--something that brought tears. It was when I saw you crying, Pepperminta, that I loved you.” She uttered the wonderfully obvious, linking up his memory with the present. “We little thought of Peter then.” By the Parks the river was dense with row-boats, punts and Canaders. Girls lay back on cushions under sunshades--sweethearts and sisters. Men, in college colors and flannels, shouted to one another, “Look ahead, sir.” Here and there a Blue showed up or a Leander, occasioning respect and whispered explanations. The great men of the undergraduate world were pointed out. Peter was recognized as the stroke-oar of Calvary. He didn't notice the heads that were turned--didn't care. His eyes rested on Cherry as often as they dared. Before his parents she treated him casually. There were times when he spoke to her and she paid him no attention. He was unhappy--did she dislike him? Then, as though she felt that she was overdoing it, a secret flash would pass between them and his fears were quieted. “Don't forget,” his father reminded him; “we leave for London this afternoon.” Hardcastle, with his lighter burden, was pushing on ahead. Peter looked at his watch, “It's almost one now. And I don't like to----.” He stooped to whisper to his father; then straightened up. “Cherry knows why. I don't like to let Hardcastle out of my sight--not with Riska. He isn't the sort of man----. We'll have to follow. If I can't punt you back, you can lunch at the inn at Marston Ferry and catch a tram. That'll get you to the station in time.”