GIVE A YEAR’S SUBSCRIPTION
TO A FRIEND
Glory grew out of her shyness; she snuggled her chin against her squirrel muff, laughing and chatting, saying things which surprised herself. Peter kept glancing at her side-long. She was tender-looking. Yes, she was like Kay. He’d noticed that before. He noticed her for a day, and then forgot her for months. It had always been like that. Was it his fault? She was like a snow-drop—she had a knack of hiding herself.
They got off at Wardour Street, tunneling into dingy alleys from which Italy watches strangers with sad brown eyes, dreaming of vineyards and sun-baked towns.
Glory twitched his arm. “Down here. It’s a short cut.”
“Hulloa! You don’t mean to say that you’ve been here by yourself?”
She looked guilty; then smiled up from beneath her lashes. She had nothing to fear from Peter. “Often, since you first brought me. Once a week, at least; but don’t tell mother. He’s got no one to love except Mr. Widow. I—I’m sorry for him.”
Mr. Widow certainly wasn’t much to love. The secondhand shop had a cheerless aspect. On this winter’s day the door stood open; Mr. Widow held that it was tempting to customers. Ocky crouched over a coke-stove, rubbing his hands. The moment Glory entered, she hurried toward him, putting her arms about his neck. His face lit up. “Why, it’s Glory! Little Glory!” He ran his hands over her. “How beautiful! But you oughtn’t to come. The Duchess’ll find out. Oh yes, she will. She always finds out. Then, there’ll be a row.”
He caught sight of Peter. “Ha! Young Oxford to see his poor old uncle! I went to Oxford once. Humph! Got married there. A bad day’s work! A bad day’s work!”
They told him their plans. He wanted to ask Mr. Widow’s permission—Mr. Widow didn’t approve of theatres. “Let him go hang,” Peter said.