“I guess no,” Eva agreed, but without enthusiasm.
“A friend!” As Nancy repeated the word a curious quiver swept over her old lined face. “You don’t have to call me a friend,” she said. “Old women like me don’t expect to be called friend—didn’t ye know that?”
“I said friend, and I meant what I said,” repeated Lena stoutly, and the old woman swallowed once or twice before she spoke again.
“You’ve told me about your work, now tell me the rest of it—the fun part,” she begged.
“O that!” said Lena. “The fun is moving pictures and roller skating and dances and the Avenue parade—with the boys along sometimes.”
“I bet ye there’s boys along where you be!” Nancy flashed an admiring glance at the girl. “I always did admire bright hair like yours, an’ a pinch o’ freckles is more takin’ than a dimple—if you ask me.”
Had Nancy been the shrewdest of mortals she could have said nothing that would have pleased Lena more. She had been called “Carrots” and “Redhead” all her life, and from the bottom of her soul she loathed her fiery locks and her freckles, though never yet had she acknowledged this to any living creature—and here was one who liked freckles and red hair! Lena could have hugged the little old woman beaming at her with such honest admiration. A wave of hot colour swept up to her forehead. But Nancy’s thoughts had taken another turn.
“Movin’ pictures. That’s the new kind of show, ain’t it? I’ve heard about ’em, but I’ve never seen any.”
“You can go for a nickel,” said Eva.
“A nickel?” echoed Nancy, flashing a swift glance at her. “But nickels don’t grow on gooseberry bushes, an’ if they did, there ain’t any gooseberry bushes around here,” she retorted.