Picking up a towel, he ran down to the barges through the glistening meadows. What a splendid world, dazzling and dew-wet! Stripping, he dived into the river. Shaking his head like a dog as he rose to the surface, he drifted down stream, turned, fought his way back and climbed out glowing. A day with her! She had promised.
He had to breakfast with the Professor—all his family were to be there; and, after that———. His father might have plans. It would be ages before he could be alone with her. The clocks of the city were striking eight—big and little voices together. Could he manage it? There was time for just a word.
He was panting when he came to Hell Passage and entered the courtyard. Her window was wide. He called to her. She didn’t answer. He plucked a rose and tossed it in the air; it landed on her window-ledge. When she wakened she might find it and guess that he had been there.
Professor Usk was in his moral mood that morning. “A great pity—a great pity that young Oxford drinks to excess.”—He was trying to impress his wife with his own extreme temperance.
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.”