“But Eustace wanth to play wiv Kay.”
“Eustace can play with Kay directly. Just come with Glory, there’s a dear little boy.”
She would nod to Peter knowingly, and smile to him, leading Eustace away and leaving him alone with Kay.
He could fill her eyes with tears at the least show of irritation; her persistent following did irritate him sometimes. Once, cross because she followed, he told her to sit on the stable wall and not to move till he said she might. Tea-time came and there was no Glory. They searched the house for her and went out into the garden, calling. Not till Peter called did she answer; then he remembered why. He remembered years after the forlornness of that tear-stained face. It was Peterish of him to forget Glory, and to remember her almost too late.
Nan, sitting sewing in the quiet sunlight, would often drop her work to watch the children. She noticed how they kept together, yet always a little separate, acting out the clash of temperaments which they had inherited from their parents. And she noticed increasingly something else—something which she never mentioned and which explained Jehane to her: that astonishing likeness of Glory to Kay, as though they had been sisters.
She would call Glory to her and, as the child sat at her feet, would say, “Do you like Peter, darling?”
The honest eyes would be lifted to her own in affirmation.
“Very much?”
“Very much, Auntie.”
The girlish hand would slip into her own and presently a faltering voice would whisper, “But he doesn’t like me always. I worry him sometimes.”