"It's lovely," said Cherry in the garden that night, when he spoke
to her about it, "but it's not Shakespere, of course," she
surprised him by adding. Cherry had developed, he thought, she had
cared nothing for Shakespere years ago. Immediately she began the
immortal phrases:

'Tis but the name that is mine enemy,
Thou art thyself, though, not a Montague ...
... And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself!

Peter's heart began to thump again. They were alone in the garden;
it was dark to-night, warm and starry.

"Now that you and I are brother and sister," Cherry said, after a
silence, "tell me--it went across my mind once, and then I didn't
think of it for years. But tell me, was it me with whom you were--
you fancied you were in love, all those years ago?"

She looked innocently up at him in the gloom, and laughed. Peter
did not speak for a few seconds.

"Yes, it was always you!" he said then, briefly.

Cherry laughed again, a little amused and exultant laugh. But
immediately she stopped laughing, and said, vexedly:

"I was a fool to ask you that! I don't know why I did. Just sheer
egotism--and I hate women who dwell on their own foolish old love
affairs, too!"