Peter wasn’t looking at the Faun Man, nor at Harry, who sat behind him. He wasn’t looking at the golden woman, who was trying to catch his attention. He was looking at Cherry. Her place was on the box, to the right of the Faun Man. She returned his gaze with laughter at first; then, because he didn’t laugh back, she turned away her head. And Peter—he was puzzled and hurt. Why was she escaping? She had promised. And why, when she was escaping, did she wear his rose against her breast?
“Going to London!” he said slowly. “No, I can’t join you.”
He swung round and was walking away. Harry called after him, “We’re not going to London, you chump. We’re only going as far as High Wycombe to look at a house. Climb aboard, and buck up.”
The golden woman added her persuasion. “For my sake, Peter. It’s Tree-Tops—the house we’re going to look at. Sounds almost as fine as the Happy Cottage, doesn’t it? Lorie’s going to live there, perhaps.”
Harry thought he had spotted the trouble. “We’ll be in Oxford before nightfall—catch a train back.”
Peter answered shortly. “Sorry. I can’t. I’ve got my people with me.”
He waved his hand and stepped from the road to the pavement.
Cherry had said nothing. She let her clear eyes rest on him. The horses were getting restive with standing and the passengers impatient. The Faun Man shook out his whip; the leaders jumped forward. “Well, if you can’t, you can’t,” he said.
Suddenly Cherry spoke. “I’m not going. Please let me down.”
The Faun Man whistled. “So that’s the way the wind’s blowing!”