“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.