There was no arguing along these lines. Barrington gave his reluctant consent.
Riska came, bringing with her Bonaparte Triggers, a flashy youth with a cockney thinness of accent. The purpose of his visit was to be impressed; he made it clear from the start that he had come to impress. He did not belong to a world of culture and felt, as Ocky Waffles had felt before him, that an effort was being made to rob him of his self-possession. He resisted the effort by smoking innumerable cigarettes, and tried to parade his own paces by accompanying himself on the piano while he sang music-hall ditties of the latest hug-me-quick-and-not-too-delicately order. His visit was not a success. He was jerry-built, like his father’s villas.
After he had departed. Nan had the nervous desire to fling up all the windows and to go through the house with a duster. It wasn’t snobbishness on her part, but she was unaccustomed to see fingers squeezed and kisses exchanged in public. Barrington found her in the drawing-room and slipped his hand into hers. “It’s as I thought; Riska’s not in love with him. Her mother’s trained her to believe that the first man to come should be the first man accepted. And, d’you know, Nan——?”
“What, Billy?”
“Didn’t you notice anything? She’s pretty and she’s sweet, because she’s young; but already she’s getting hard and calculating like Jehane. I’m afraid for her—she’s more passion than her mother ever had. She’s ripe fruit, and not sixteen yet; if she isn’t plucked, she’ll fall to the ground.—— It’s a horrible thing to say of a young girl.”
And then, “I don’t like him; but I hope he marries her.”
He didn’t marry her; Peter and Glory were blamed for that. Without telling anyone, they arranged to give Ocky a Christmas treat. What form the treat was to take caused many secret discussions. They had to be secret—all Glory’s dealings with her stepfather were secret; the mention of his name was forbidden by her mother.
“How about a theatre?” Peter suggested.
Glory shook her quiet head. “He’s not very intellectual.”
“Well, a pantomime?”