It was partly because Barrington had observed and was distressed by his boy's sadness, that he granted his desire. He granted it to give him a new interest. Peter had always dreamt of a day when he should polish up the tandem tricycle, put Kay on the back seat and ride off with her into the country. “Well, Peter, I'll let you do it if you'll promise to be very careful.” It was early summer when these splendid adventures commenced. Peter had to do all the work--Kay's legs were too short to reach the pedals. But what did he care? Just to have his little sister all to himself, London dropping away behind and the world growing greener before him--what more could a boy ask to make him happy? The tandem trike was a clumsy solid-tired affair--desperately heavy and beyond belief old-fashioned. Peter managed to accomplish six miles an hour on it. The way out, along Green Lanes to Wood Green and up Jolly Butcher's Hill, would have been full of ignominy for anybody less light-hearted. Kay's flying hair and plunging legs would have attracted attention had the tricycle been ever so new and handsome. Errand-boys stood still and whistled after them. Tradesmen followed them in their carts, offering to race them and grinning ridicule. Very frequently insult set itself to the words of a street song then in fashion: “It won't be a stylish marriage; For I can't afford a carriage; But you'll look sweet with your two little feet On a tricycle made for two.” What did Peter care? Ill-nature failed to touch him. Little boys who pulled faces at him from the pavements, made long noses at him or stuck out their tongues, did it in envy. He wished he could take them too. So he and Kay turned their heads and threw back laughter. It was fun--all fun. And then there was the anticipation of lunch; two shillings between two people can buy so much. Shortly after Jolly Butcher's Hill the country began. At Southgate they would stop to see their cousins. Riska affected to despise their means of traveling. She was shooting up into a tall girl, like her mother; she was darkly handsome and carried herself with a gipsy slouch. Jehane's philosophy, of teaching her girls how to catch men, was already beginning to take effect. Outside the cottage-gate she had a little table from which she sold ginger-beer to Cockney cyclists. She did it to make pocket-money; even as a child, by this means of introduction she gathered about her a group of boy-lovers. She was learning early how to attract when she cared. Her mother was pleased by her foolish conquests--in the rose-scented air of the cottage garden they seemed very guileless and humorous. In the presence of men, whatever their years, Riska invariably tried to fascinate. “It's an instinct with her, the little puss,” said Barrington; “she even tries to make love to her old uncle.” It was a subject for laughter in the family.