Peter hung his head. Glory was looking at him. Was it just wonder in her eyes or a question? Had she guessed? Would everybody guess?
“I didn’t come, Kitten Kay, because I haven’t anything for you.”
She gazed at him incredulously. Her face fell with disappointment. “But the cab, Peter? The Christmas cab!”
“There was nothing in it. I’ve not got anything for anybody.”
She couldn’t understand it; he could see that. She was saying to herself, “Did Peter forget me?” But her face brightened bravely. “I’ve something for you.”
“I couldn’t take it, Kay. No, really.”
He was nearly crying with mortification. “I’ve nothing for you, little Kay; and, yet, I love you better than anyone in all the world.”
She held out her arms to him with the divine magnanimity of childhood. “Dear, dear Peter. Softy me. It’ll do just as well.”
He returned to his room while she dressed. He sat on the edge of his bed with the gas unlighted. He did not open the parcels which his father and mother had left. He did not deserve them. He had nothing to give in exchange. He would be ashamed to look them in the face at breakfast—especially to meet Riska, who was certain to show what she thought of his meanness. In the darkness he reflected how wise he had been to give that money to Uncle Waffles before the temptation commenced.
Kay entered. “Coming downstairs?”