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for the Hump (“which is the part of the Broad Walk where all the big races are run”) or the Round Pond (“where you can’t be good all the time, however much you try”); but the truer one, that they chase those childish visions with which their interpreter, the author of Peter Pan—himself interpreted and helped by a draughtsman of imagination—has peopled the Gardens for us. Now this second interpreter, this helper, is Mr. Arthur Rackham.
At Lancaster Gate, past which the omnibuses ply between Shepherd’s Bush and the Marble Arch (poetical names), there stands a house overlooking, across that wide river of traffic, the delectable haunts of Peter Pan; and in that house the author of Peter Pan’s being first informed me (for proof, leading me to a painted panel over the fireplace) that20
