“What does it matter? You’ll do without all right.”
At the sound of his voice, she recollected, and her tears and her weeping returned.
“Nay,” he said, “don’t fret about the old woman. She’ll come round to-morrow—an’ if she doesn’t, it’s her lookout. She’s got Polly to attend to her.”
“But she’ll be that miserable——!” wept Meg.
“It’s her own fault. At any rate, don’t let it make you miserable”—he glanced to see if anyone were in sight, then he put his arm round her waist and kissed her, saying softly, coaxingly: “She’ll be all right to-morrow. We’ll go an’ see her then, an’ she’ll be glad enough to have us. We’ll give in to her then, poor old Gran’ma. She can boss you about, an’ me as well, tomorrow as much as she likes. She feels it hard, being tied to her bed. But to-day is ours, surely—isn’t it? To-day is ours, an’ you’re not sorry, are you?”
“But I’ve got no gloves, an’ I’m sure my hair’s a sight. I never thought she could ’a reached up like that.”
George laughed, tickled.
“No,” he said, “she was in a temper. But we can get you some gloves directly we get to Nottingham.”
“I haven’t a farthing of money,” she said.
“I’ve plenty!” he laughed. “Oh, an’ let’s try this on.”