Glory grew brighter at every mile they covered. Everything pleased or amused or astonished her. With the charm born of a vivid interest in life she radiated happiness over all the company. Some glimpses of the country girl came back, her soul thrilled to the beauty of the world around, and she cried out like a child at sight of the chestnut and red hawthorn, and at the scent of spring with which the air was laden. From time to time she was recognised on the road, people raised their hats to her, and Drake made no disguise of his beaming pride. He leaned back to Rosa, who was sitting on the seat behind, and whispered, “Like herself to-day, isn't she?”
“Why shouldn't she be? With all the world at her feet and her future on the knees of the gods!” said Rosa.
But a shade of sadness came over Glory's face, as if the gay world and its amusements had not altogether filled a void that was left somewhere in her heart. They were drawing up to water the horses at the old “Cock” at Sutton, and a brown-faced woman with big silver earrings and a monster hat and feather came up to the coach to tell the “quality” their fortunes.
“Oh, let us, Glo,” cried Betty. “I'd love it of all things, doncher know.”
The gipsy had held out her hand to Glory. “Let me look at your palm, pretty lady.”
“Am I to cross it with silver first?”
“Thank you kindly! But must I tell you the truth, lady?”
“Why yes, mother. Why not?”
“Then you're going to lose money to-day, lady; but never mind, you shall be fortunate in the end, and the one you love shall be yours.”
“That's all right,” cried the gentlemen in chorus. The ladies tittered, and Glory turned to Drake and said, “A pair of gloves against Ellan Vannin.”