“Jack-of-all-trades,” smiled Peter. “I’ll give myself the pleasure of escorting you to your door.”
They walked through the deserted streets. Every man abroad was at the fair. Democritus followed. It had been a day of perplexity to him.
The Ugly Little Girl was fumbling with one hand at her neck; in the other arm she held the precious clock and vase.
“What,” asked Peter politely, “is the trouble? Can I assist you?”
“’Ere, ’old them a minute, will you?” She thrust the clock and vase towards him. Peter [Pg 260]took them. She fumbled now with both hands, and in a moment brought them away, holding in them a small medal, one of the Immaculate Conception. It was attached to a thick boot-lace.
Peter gazed at her.
“I ’aven’t nothin’ else worth ’avin’,” she said hurriedly. “Father Mordaunt ’e blessed it for me. I’d—I’d like you to take it.”
Peter looked from the medal and boot-lace to the ugly, imploring face.
“Oh, but—” he said, and he hesitated. It was obviously a great possession.
“Father Mordaunt ’e’d never mind,” she said earnestly; “and—and Our Lady’ll understand, seein’ as ’ow it’s the only thing I’ve got to give you, and you’ve made me so ’appy.” She still tendered it, wistful, anxious.