And so these two entered into partnership—a partnership that, on the side of Democritus, was marked by an entire adoration, the full and overwhelming love and trust of a dog’s soul, and on Peter’s by affection and a real sense of comfort in the small animal’s companionship.  
The days that passed were days of unbroken sunshine; England was revelling, as she rarely does, in long-continued sun and warmth. Peter spent the mornings and a good part of the afternoon in the shade of some coppice or in the shadow of some old quarry or haystack, engrossed in his writing, while Democritus at first lay curled beside him, and later, as the ugly wound healed, set off on rabbiting expeditions of his own, to return at noon and share Peter’s midday meal.
 
After having worked for some weeks under a roof, Peter at first did not find it so easy to write in the open. There were countless things to prove of distraction—the sunlight spots that danced on the ground beside him, the glint of a dragon-fly’s wing, the butterflies that flitted in the sunshine, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cows, the cry of the curlew, the plaintive pipe of the plover, all served to carry his thoughts into dreamy realms of fancy away from the work of the moment.
 
And in these realms there were three or four pictures that kept recurring to his mind. There was a woman sitting in the sunshine on a terrace, her hair warm and lustrous in the light. Peter would see again the indescribable note of race and breeding that predominated in her; see her eyes grey and shining; the warm ivory of her skin; her white hands long-fingered and slender, rose-tipped, with almond-shaped nails; the lines of her graceful figure; the whole fragrance, the warm vitality of her; and hear her low, round voice. There was a moonlight picture, elusive, full of a rare charm. There was a picture half-hidden in driving rain, and then a woman by his hearth, lifting a glass of red wine to her lips. And, lastly, a picture of a woman, looking at him, white, silent, her eyes holding depths of contempt.
 
 
And here Peter would catch his underlip with his teeth and turn again fiercely to his writing. It was gay writing, witty writing. His Wanderer wore his cap and bells finely, jesting right royally, and it would have needed a penetrating insight to recognize the sigh beneath the smile.
 
The world, as Peter had told Democritus, has borne much in her time. Through countless ages she has seen the sin, the sorrow, the pain of mankind; but she knows, if they could but realize it, that all this is as transitory as the barren days of winter that cover her, and that life and hope are never dead, but only sleeping, and will awake again with the spring. She tells us this times out of number. Every year she silently speaks her allegory, but it falls for the most part on unheeding ears. In the barren winter of our lives it is not easy to believe that spring will once more wake for us, that however long and dreary the grey months, somewhere and at some time the spring will dawn. Peter was facing his winter bravely, but he could not yet believe that one day the sun would shine again for him, the birds sing, the flowers bloom. For all his outward gaiety, the present physical warmth and sunshine only served [Pg 248]to emphasize his mental winter. But Nature knew and did her best to cheer him, and to tell him that our interior spring and summer, though their advent is sure, do not always accord with hers.
 
One day, somewhere about the middle of September, Peter reached a small town. He was progressing slowly northward, but as he spent a considerable part of his time in writing his progress was by no means hurried.
 
In this town a fair was in full swing, and Peter was reminded of a letter he had once received, which talked of another fair—one in the South of England.
 
It was a gay scene enough, and Peter, with Democritus, at his heels, paused a while to watch it. There were crowds of people in holiday attire; there were endless couples—girl and swain. There were coco-nut shies; there were merry-go-rounds of horses and boat-cars, which revolved to some excruciating music (so-called), set in motion by the machinery which worked the highly coloured wooden horses and cars. There were stalls covered with miscellaneous articles of marvellous [Pg 249]manufacture—glass vases with undulated edges, beginning white at the base and slowly increasing in colour from pale pink to a violent ruby; china mugs and cups covered with floreate designs or flags, between two of which King George and Queen Mary stared forth with painted pained surprise. There were gilt clocks, boxes of sweets, tin butter-dishes politely called silver, and all the rest of the articles which usually adorn the stalls at a fair.
 
A number of these articles were displayed on a circular table covered with red twill and surrounded by a barricade, beside which stood a man with a number of small hoops in his hand. In a loud voice he was urging the onlookers to try their luck. The hoops, it appeared, were to be loaned to them at the rate of three a penny; they were then to be flung quoit-like over any article on the table. Provided they fell surrounding the article without touching it, it became the property of the thrower. If you had ill-luck you had disbursed your money with no result; moderate luck would bring you a packet of sweets or a china dog or cat, and by surprising good luck you might become the possessor of a certain largish gilt clock or a [Pg 250]ruby vase, and all for a sum which might be the fraction of a penny. It sounded seductive, and the throwers of the hoops were fairly numerous, though the acquirers of prizes were few. The wooden hoop had an unpleasant way of falling against the article required and propping itself up by it as though too tired for further exertion. But the throwers, with the hearts of born gamblers, continued to throw and hope for better things, till diminishing coppers or entirely empty pockets sent them sadly away. Naturally there was an occasional piece of luck, which fired the assembly to fresh enthusiasm.
 
Peter stood still to watch, amused by the wild vagaries of the wooden hoops. Suddenly a small voice at his elbow spoke.
 
“It ain’t easy, is it? I’ve thrown a shilling on that there table and not got so much as a penny packet o’ sweets. It’s dis’eartening!”
 
Peter looked round. At his elbow was a small and ugly girl, possibly the ugliest girl on which it had ever been his fortune to set eyes. Her pale, square face was covered with freckles, her eyes, small and green, were like little slits, her nose—a mere apology for that feature—was a dab in the [Pg 251]middle of her face, her mouth wide and formless.
 
“Apparently it is not easy,” said Peter politely. And then he removed his eyes from her face, fearing that his astonishment at her plainness might be perceived by her.
 
She sighed. “I wish I ’adn’t thrown my shilling on that there table. It’s the third year now as I’ve made a fool of myself, and not a penny left for the ’orses nor nothin’. ’Tisn’t as if I were one o’ the girls wot folks treat. ’Oo could, with a face like mine?”
 
There was no complaint in the remark. It was not even a hint to Peter; it was merely the grave statement of a fact, with the explanation of the reason for it.
 
“Why,” asked Peter solemnly, “did you throw your money on that table?”
 
She came a trifle nearer to him, and spoke in a whisper.
 
“It’s them two things,” she said. “That there vase—the crimson one with the white snake a-curling round it, and the gold clock. I’ve watched ’em now for three years, and me ’eart’s in me mouth lest some one should get the ’oops over. I can’t get away from ’ere, nor enjoy the fair no ’ow for watchin’, so the ’orses and boats wouldn’t be much good even if I ’adn’t throwed that shilling away.” It was poured forth in a rapid undertone, as if the mere mention of her longing might lead a hoop to encircle either of the two coveted treasures.
 
Peter eyed them gravely. Of course they were unutterably hideous, that went without saying; but there they were, representing the goal—unattainable—of three years’ ambition.
 
“I wonder—” said Peter, and stopped. He had once had some skill as a player of quoits. He drew a copper from his pocket. “I’ll have three of those hoops,” he said to the man in charge of the stall.
 
The Ugly Little Girl watched him, anxiety in her eyes. Democritus, at his master’s heels, was regarding the proceedings unperturbed.
 
Peter flung one hoop; it fell on the table and rested in its usual melancholy fashion against a china figure. The Ugly Little Girl heaved a sigh of relief; she felt that her confidence had been misplaced.
 
Peter threw again. The hoop fell fairly over the gilt clock.
 
 
“Good!” said the owner of the stall, with an attempt at cheerfulness. And he picked up the hoop, handing Peter the clock.
 
Amazed, wrathful, fighting with her tears, the Ugly Little Girl watched Peter. He threw a third time. The ruby vase with the white snake climbing up it was neatly encircled. The man handed it to Peter in a melancholy fashion.
 
“More ’oops?” he asked dejectedly.
 
“Not at the moment,” returned Peter jauntily, and he moved away. The Ugly Little Girl was no longer at his elbow.
 
Peter worked his way through the group of envious admirers round the stall, and at a little distance he saw her. He walked in her direction, Democritus at his heels.
 
“Permit me,” quoth Peter as he approached.
 
She turned round; her eyes were full of tears, her mouth distorted in a grim............