“Why, of course we’re going,” said the golden woman. Her eyes met Peter’s; they seemed to beg him not to call off, but to accompany her. Why was she so insistent about getting him to London? Who was waiting there? Why wouldn’t she tell him anything about the Faun Man or Cherry? He calculated how long the drive would take. They were not quite half-way. If they continued the journey they’d barely catch that last train back. Again he recognized the appeal in her eyes.
“What about it? What do you say, Peter?”
“I? Why, I’m game. I’m going.”
Some of the men refused. The party was reduced to six when they started.
What a wet clean world they entered! It had all been made new and, somehow, tender. The spray of rain was still in the air; it swept against their faces coolly, vanished unexplained, and touched them again without warning. In meadows and tree-tops there was a continual muffled patter, as of little unseen people treading softly. From the back seats came bursts of laughter and snatches of song, mimicking Mr. Taylor’s impressive chorus:
“It was on a dark and stormy night,
One, two, three—perished in the snow.”
The golden woman bent her head aside, “Tryin’ to find a nice gal wot’ll appreciate my undoubted fine qualities! That’s what all you men are doing.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Yes, you are, from the minute you put on long trousers to the last moment when you step into the grave. Men don’t find her often; when they do, as likely as not she doesn’t want them.”