The Faun Man spread out his long legs, laughing uproariously; until the appearance of the children, he’d been most scrupulously conventional and polite. “But, Peter, an immortal friendship like ours cut short by a tandem trike! You little donkey, why didn’t you write?”
Kay rose up in her brother’s defence. “He isn’t a little donkey. We were all to be pretence people, don’t you remember? We didn’t know your address.”
The Faun Man stroked his chin and lengthened his face. “If you’d left me alone much longer,” he said, “you wouldn’t have found me; I’m moving into London.”
Then their parents began to ask questions; the story of Friday Lane and the mouth-organ boy came out.
That evening, after Lorenzo Arran had said good-by, he turned back to his host, just as the door was closing.
“Oh, I say! One minute, Barrington. That matter we were discussing yesterday—let’s consider it settled.”
Barrington watched the tall, lean figure go striding down the Terrace. He was so taken up with watching, that he didn’t know that Nan had stolen up behind him until she touched his hand. He turned; his mouth was crooked with amusement. “Did you hear that? He agrees—I’m to publish for him. And it’s Peter’s doing. One never knows where that boy won’t turn up.”
And Peter, snuggled cosily in bed, was wondering whether, now that he’d found the Faun Man, he’d refind Cherry. He reflected that when life could play such tricks on you, a lifetime of it wouldn’t be half bad. He was no longer frightened to remember that, whether he liked it or not, he must grow up.