“Where’s Aunt Jehane?”
“Mother’s got a headache. She’s gone to lie down.” Peter took his place on the hearth-rug, his legs apart, his back to the fire, in unconscious imitation of his father. Glory bowed her head, hiding her face, and went on with her darning. Peter watched her. How slight she was! How lonely she looked in the great arm-chair. Then it struck him that she was always working, and that Aunt Jehane very frequently had headaches.
“Don’t you ever want to play, Glory?”
“Oh, yes, I want.”
“Why d’you say it like that? Just I want.”
“Where’s the good of wanting?”
The head bowed lower. The firelight shone in her hair. Her face was more than ever hidden from him.
“But you’re such a little girl—a whole year younger than I am. When I want to play I do it.”
“Do you?”
It was always like that when Peter took notice of Glory—short questions and short answers which led no further.