And the golden woman! Peter saw her often: in Oxford; when he cycled out with Harry to Tree-Tops; during his vacations in London. He couldn't believe what Harry told him--that she was cold and selfish. Everything that she did was tender, from the caressing way she had of speaking to the childish frankness with which she slipped her hand into his own when she was happy. She made everyone love her and everyone forgive her--everyone except Harry and Cherry. She had studied the art of appearing adorable, so that what in others were faults in her took on the glamour of attractions. She was so fond of the Faun Man--why didn't she marry him? Peter didn't know. He gave it up--shrugged his shoulders. Somewhere underground, as in his own life, the body of love lay buried. In the stillness, did he listen, he could hear jealousy gnawing--gnawing like a rat in the coffin of a dead princess. Once, in reading one of the Faun Man's books, he came across a jotting in the margin, the thought of which had no bearing on the text. It was as though thwarted longing had cried aloud, suddenly becoming aware of its own tragedy. The sentence read: “Life is slipping away from us. I have tried to make you love me. And yet----.” The bond of sympathy which existed between himself and the golden woman increased in strength and knowledge. He could talk to her of so many things concerning which he was silent to other people. Being in love, he had to talk to someone. She was so wise in the advice she gave him. By the patience with which she listened, she seemed to tell him that she herself had endured the same indifference. How that could be he did not understand. She encouraged him to make confession. It became a habit. Perhaps the trust which he placed in her flattered her. It may have been that his capacity for being so sheerly young tantalized her--she desired above all things to be always young herself. Without doubt his implicit faith in her goodness helped to silence her self-despisings. But she was not above using their friendship as a means of provoking the Faun Man. She would slip her arm about Peter's neck and say, “No chance for you now, Lorie.” Her lover's eyes would rest on her broodingly and film over, hiding his thoughts, “Oh, well, I have Cherry.” Even though Cherry knew that it was said in pretence, her face would grow radiant. It hurt Peter. He would willingly have given the best years of his life to make her care for him like that. It was then that he listened, and heard within himself the gnawing of the rat of jealousy.