Peter sat on the grass, by the roadside, in the shadow of a hedge—­a rose-bush hedge, of course—­and lighted a cigarette.

Far down the long white road, against the blue velvet sky, between the poplars, two little spots of black, two small human figures, were moving towards him.

Half absently, he let his eyes accompany them.

As they carne nearer, they defined themselves as a boy and a girl.  Nearer still, he saw that they were ragged and dusty and barefoot.

The boy had three or four gaudy-hued wicker baskets slung over his shoulder.

Vaguely, tacitly, Peter supposed that they would be the children of some of the peasants of the countryside, on their way home from the village.

As they arrived abreast of him, they paid him the usual peasants’ salute.  The boy lifted a tattered felt hat from his head, the girl bobbed a courtesy, and “Buona sera, Eccellenza,” they said in concert, without, however, pausing in their march.

Peter put his hand in his pocket.

“Here, little girl,” he called.

The little girl glanced at him, doubting.

“Come here,” he said.

Her face a question, she came up to him; and he gave her a few coppers.

“To buy sweetmeats,” he said.

“A thousand thanks; Excellency,” said she, bobbing another courtesy.

“A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the boy, from his distance, again lifting his rag of a hat.

And they trudged on.

But Peter looked after them—­and his heart smote him.  They were clearly of the poorest of the poor.  He thought of Hansel and Gretel.  Why had he given them so little?  He called to them to stop.

The little girl came running back.

Peter rose to meet her.

“You may as well buy some ribbons too,” he said, and gave her a couple of lire.

She looked at the money with surprise—­even with an appearance of hesitation.  Plainly, it was a sum, in her eyes.

“It’s all right.  Now run along,” said Peter.

“A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said she, with a third courtesy, and rejoined her brother . . . .

“Where are they going?” asked a voice.

Peter faced about.

There stood the Duchessa, in a bicycling costume, her bicycle beside her.  Her bicycling costume was of blue serge, and she wore a jaunty sailor-hat with a blue ribbon.  Peter (in spite of the commotion in his breast) was able to remember that this was the first time he had seen her in anything but white.

Her attention was all upon the children, whom he, perhaps, had more or less banished to Cracklimbo.

“Where are they going?” she repeated, trouble in her voice and in her eyes.

Peter collected himself.

“The children?  I don’t know—­I didn’t ask.  Home, aren’t they?”

“Home?  Oh, no.  They don’t live hereabouts,” she said.  “I know all the poor of this neighbourhood.—­Ohe there!  Children!  Children!” she cried.