The car swerved round a bend and lights flashed out, pale in the twilight like glow-worms on the green. "Oh, Peter--look!" Jill clapped her hands. "It's a Village Fair--how lovely!--with merry-go-rounds!" "So it is." Peter smiled as Roddy twisted round, his boy's face alight, with an eager request. "Can't we stop, Peter?--and have _one_ turn ... My hat! there's a cocoanut shy! Oh, _do_ pull up..." McTaggart leaned forward and consulted the driver. "Have you time, old man? These kids are awfully keen." "Rather," Bethune laughed good-naturedly. "We'll run the car first into the Inn yard. Can't leave it here--the road's too narrow." They skirted the crowd slowly at the end of the village street, the horn (worked by Roddy) vying with the strains of the cracked "Steam Band," and, handing over the rugs to the care of the ostler, proceeded on foot to the scene of the fun. It was hardly a fair, but one of those travelling shows that wander across the country with a handful of caravans. Dark gypsy faces, the hoarse cry of the showmen, the flaring petroleum jets and the noisy metallic music were blent in a scene garish and crude but strangely exciting after the lonely roads. "The merry-go-rounds first," Jill declared. "I choose the piebald horse--you take the black!" McTaggart swarmed up, infected by her mood, Roddy in front of them, with a roar of delight as Bethune settled his bulky form on a wooden donkey. "Off we go!--Houp-la! ..." They whirled round and round. "Two to one on the rat-tailed mare!" McTaggart's voice rang out. Jill, clinging to the piebald's neck, with a fine show of ankles, her dark hair streaming back, looked like a Bacchante. "Isn't it ripping?" Her motor veil swung loose, her fur cap slid back, and about her glowing face the straying curls blew. Her gray eyes like stars met McTaggart's open smile. Joy was in her heart. The machine ran down. Panting, they descended. "Now--the cocoanuts!" Roddy led the way to where a narrow screen of sacking protected the crowd of village folks from too violent an onslaught. A hoarse voice greeted them: "This way--guv'nor! Six sticks a penny! _All_-the-fun-o'-the-fair! Now then--young sir--move on ... Hi!--Don't shove the lidy!--_Six sticks a penny_!" They found themselves in the centre of the firing line. "Got 'im!" Bethune shouted his approval. "Bravo, Miss Uniacke!" as Roddy with a yell captured the cocoanut his sister had dislodged. The crowd pressed round them, and McTaggart found himself suddenly isolated from his own party. "Cross the gypsy's 'and, my fine gentleman..." A coaxing voice chanted in his ear. "There's fortune for you, dearie; I see it in your face--it's coming over the seas--with a golden crown..." Peter turned quickly. In the dim half light he looked back into a pair of glowing dark eyes: a gypsy woman's face with glossy black hair and long coral earrings hanging on each side.