“You took all night to—” he began roughly, and then he relaxed, sitting down in the swivel chair at his desk as heavily as Mr. ’Gene Carey might have done, and wiping his brow and his wrists with his handkerchief. “All right. You can go. Get out!”
Glen Darrow, meanwhile, returning by way of the spinning room, found a stranger in light and pleasant converse with Gloriana-Virginia Tolliver, who was smiling at him wanly and shyly.
He was a very young man, she saw at a glance, and his slimness and extreme fairness increased the boyishness—the almost childishness—of his appearance. He was dressed all in spotless white, save for the bright blue of his cravat, and he looked cool and serene in contrast to the palely sweating Glory.
“Yes,” he was saying cordially, “I certainly do like fairy tales, and I believe ’em, too! I’ve known the most amazing things to happen!”
“Yes, suh!” Her wise, kind little monkey face regarded him with respectful friendliness. She was lightly dusted with lint and wisps of thread hung here and there on her dress.
He did not hear her approach, so Glen stood still for an instant, looking at him and listening to him.
“I think I didn’t catch your name,” he was saying gravely.
“Gloriana-Virginia Tolliver, suh, but they mos’ gin’er’ly calls me ‘Glory.’”
“They call you Glory....” He bent upon her a thoughtful look. “And how old are you, Gloriana-Virginia?”
“I’m fo’teen, suh.”