“But it isn’t really. It makes you forget yourself—in time. I shall rise to it as I age, and I’m ageing fast.”
“I don’t want to forget myself,” said Daisy, “and I’m sure Mr. Spry wouldn’t let me if I did. He’s death on spoiling me.”
“Be happy while you can,” advised Medora. “And bring your young man to supper one night.”
They talked of the works, for despite the larger interests of Kellock, Medora still found the politics of the Mill her chief subject.
“Do you think they’d be nasty if I was to go in one day on some pretence and see ’em?” she asked.
Daisy considered.
“You’d be welcome for your mother’s sake in the rag house,” she answered; “but I wouldn’t go in your own shop, if I was you. I dare say it’s jealousy, but the women in the glazing shop—it’s old Pinhey’s fault largely, I believe. He’s a religious old devil.”
“For some things I’d almost like to be back again,” declared Medora. “Just for the minute, till we’ve got a house and so on, I’m at a loose end. I do a lot of writing for Jordan, and he finds me very useful, and is going to get me a typewriter. But just for the minute—it would distract my mind. There’s nothing small about Mr. Trenchard—he’d let me come back, I reckon.”
Daisy did not venture an opinion, and the talk returned to Harold Spry. But from that day, Medora’s determination to go into the works increased. She did not tell Jordan, suspecting that he would have forbidden such an experiment, nor did she mention the matter to her mother; but she decided that she would stroll in some day.