“Kay wouldn’t cry about a thing like that. She’s my little sister—littler than me—and she’s never going to marry. We’re going to live together always and have chipped potatoes and sausages for breakfast.”
A smile twisted the thin straight lips of the sallow woman; it was the first that Peter had seen there. It was almost tender—like a thing forgotten coming back.
He laughed—he was always ready to laugh at himself. “You think that’s funny? Father thinks it’s funny, too. He says, ‘Peterkins, Peterkins, time’ll change all that.’ But it won’t you know, ‘cause we mean it truly.”
“But wouldn’t it be very sad not to marry? Wouldn’t you like one day to have a little boy just like yourself?”
He shook his head. “I’m an awful worry. No, I don’t think so. But I’d like to have a little girl like Kay—and I’ll have her, anyhow.”
The arm of the sallow woman stole round his shoulder. “Who says you’re an awful worry?”
“That’s why I’m here, you know. I worried them with my queer questions. When I’m the same as other people, they’ll let me come back.”
“I don’t think you’re a worry. I hope you’ll never be like anyone else.”
“But you mustn’t say that, ‘cause you’re to change me. I’m glad you like me.”
“Then be glad I love you,” she whispered.