The Faun Man became very solemn. His voice was husky. “We don’t. But we could.”
She twisted round in his embrace so that she met him breast to breast. “Ah, there’s the voice of every tragedy! We don’t. But we could—— And we know we could; and yet we don’t.”
Down the garden, over the plank-bridge, across the meadow, through the Haunted Wood they went together: the boy and girl, like lovers with arms encircling; the man and woman, like brother and sister, holding hands, brushing shoulders, and following. As they entered into Friday Lane, Kay looked back. At the foot of a big oak Canute was lying, his nose between his fore-paws, his eyes red-rimmed with vigilance.
She tugged on Peter’s arm. “Why he must be up there. Oh, do let’s be nice to him. Just one minute. Let’s.”
But when they approached, the dog’s back bristled and he growled. He lifted his black lip, showing the whiteness of his fangs. His sullen eyes were on the golden woman. Like one embittered, who had ceased to believe that virtue could be found anywhere, he regarded all four of them in anger.
The Faun Man shrugged his shoulders. “When he climbs trees that means he’s getting better. There’s no sense in worrying him; he won’t come down till he’s ready.”
“Good-night,” Kay called to him with piping shrillness.
“Good-night,” called Peter.
And again, when the tree was growing small in the distance, Kay shouted, “Good-night, Harry. We’ve missed you.”
From up in the clouds, very faint and little, came the sound of a mouth-organ playing the wander-tune of romance: