you do the polka.”
He scowled at her. He was only too well aware that Sally loathed him, however much he tried he could not win her round. He had the uncomfortable feeling, under her dark eyes, that Sally saw through him; sometimes her shrill derisive laugh cutting into his manly conversation would take him completely aback, rend his composure from him, make him blush horribly.
His scowl gratified her; her eyes sparkled. Though she was only eleven, her sense of drollery was acute. Gaily she went on with the game of taking him off.
“You ought to be a good dancer, too, you’ve such big feet. Can you reverse, Miss Sunley? Yes indeed, Joe, I mean Mr. Gowlan, excuse the liberty. Shall we try? Please do, Mr. Gowlan, dear. Isn’t the music too lovelee? Ouch! ye beggor, ye tramped on me corn.”
She was really very funny, screwing up her comic littleface, rolling her big black eyes, mimicking Jenny’s fastidious accent to perfection.
“Shall I stand you an ice, my deah? Or would you prefer tripe? Beautiful tripe. Straight from the cow. You can have all the curly bits.” She jerked her head upwards. “She’s curling her hair upstairs. Miss Sunley. Jenny, the lady toff what sleeps with the clothes-peg on her nose. Been at it for an hour. Come straight from in the millineree, not serving mind you, that’s what the slaveys do, that’s comming! Made me heat the irons, she did, caught me a cuff on the ear for the good of the house. There’s temper for you, Joseph, take a stitch in time before you leap!”
“Ah, be quiet will you… you cheeky little brat.” He rose from the table, made for the door.
She pretended to blush, remarking mincingly:
“Don’t be so formal, Mr. Gowlan, dear. Just call me plain Maggie. With such lovelee eyes ain’t it a shame you smoke. Oh, don’t think of leaving me so soon,” deliberately she got in his way, “just let me sing you a song before you go, Mr. Gowlan. One tiny little song.” Folding her hands in coy imitation of Jenny standing at the piano she began, very falsetto:
“See the little pansy faces,
Growing in the garden there…”
She stopped when the door banged behind him, burst into a peal of delighted laughter, then took a flying header on to the sofa. She lay curled up on the edge whanging the springs with her own delight.
Upstairs Joe shaved, scrubbed himself, robed carefully in the best blue serge, knotted a new green tie, neatly laced his shiny brown boots. Even so he was ready before Jenny; he waited impatiently in the hall. Yet when she did come down she took his breath away, knocked the puff right out of him: dressed in a pink frock, white satin shoes, a white crochet shawl—known in the vogue of the moment as a
fascinator
—over her hair. Her grey eyes had a cool lustre in her clear, petalled face. She was delicately sucking a scented cachou.
“By gum, Jenny, you look a treat!”
She accepted his homage as a matter of course, slipped her everyday cloth coat over her finery, took the front door key with a womanly air and put it in her coat pocket. Then she caught sight of his brown boots. Her lip dropped.
“I wish, Joe,” she said peevishly, “that you had got yourself a pair of pumps. I told you to a week ago.”
“Ah, all the fellows wear these at the Social, I asked them.”
“Don’t be a fool! As if I didn’t know! You’ll make me look ridiculous with these brown boots. Have you got the cab?”
“Cab!” His jaw fell; did she think he was Carnegie? he said sulkily: “We’re going by tram.”
Her eyes frosted with temper.
“I see! So that’s what you think of me! I’m not good enough to have a cab.”
From the landing above Ada called out:
“Don’t be late, you two. I’ve taken a Daisy powder and I’m going to bed.”
“Don’t you worry, ma,” Jenny answered in a mortal huff. “We certainly shan’t be late.”
They caught a red tram which was, unfortunately, very full. The tram’s fullness made Jenny more sulky, she
He scowled at her. He was only too well aware that Sally loathed him, however much he tried he could not win her round. He had the uncomfortable feeling, under her dark eyes, that Sally saw through him; sometimes her shrill derisive laugh cutting into his manly conversation would take him completely aback, rend his composure from him, make him blush horribly.
His scowl gratified her; her eyes sparkled. Though she was only eleven, her sense of drollery was acute. Gaily she went on with the game of taking him off.
“You ought to be a good dancer, too, you’ve such big feet. Can you reverse, Miss Sunley? Yes indeed, Joe, I mean Mr. Gowlan, excuse the liberty. Shall we try? Please do, Mr. Gowlan, dear. Isn’t the music too lovelee? Ouch! ye beggor, ye tramped on me corn.”
She was really very funny, screwing up her comic littleface, rolling her big black eyes, mimicking Jenny’s fastidious accent to perfection.
“Shall I stand you an ice, my deah? Or would you prefer tripe? Beautiful tripe. Straight from the cow. You can have all the curly bits.” She jerked her head upwards. “She’s curling her hair upstairs. Miss Sunley. Jenny, the lady toff what sleeps with the clothes-peg on her nose. Been at it for an hour. Come straight from in the millineree, not serving mind you, that’s what the slaveys do, that’s comming! Made me heat the irons, she did, caught me a cuff on the ear for the good of the house. There’s temper for you, Joseph, take a stitch in time before you leap!”
“Ah, be quiet will you… you cheeky little brat.” He rose from the table, made for the door.
She pretended to blush, remarking mincingly:
“Don’t be so formal, Mr. Gowlan, dear. Just call me plain Maggie. With such lovelee eyes ain’t it a shame you smoke. Oh, don’t think of leaving me so soon,” deliberately she got in his way, “just let me sing you a song before you go, Mr. Gowlan. One tiny little song.” Folding her hands in coy imitation of Jenny standing at the piano she began, very falsetto:
“See the little pansy faces,
Growing in the garden there…”
She stopped when the door banged behind him, burst into a peal of delighted laughter, then took a flying header on to the sofa. She lay curled up on the edge whanging the springs with her own delight.
Upstairs Joe shaved, scrubbed himself, robed carefully in the best blue serge, knotted a new green tie, neatly laced his shiny brown boots. Even so he was ready before Jenny; he waited impatiently in the hall. Yet when she did come down she took his breath away, knocked the puff right out of him: dressed in a pink frock, white satin shoes, a white crochet shawl—known in the vogue of the moment as a
fascinator
—over her hair. Her grey eyes had a cool lustre in her clear, petalled face. She was delicately sucking a scented cachou.
“By gum, Jenny, you look a treat!”
She accepted his homage as a matter of course, slipped her everyday cloth coat over her finery, took the front door key with a womanly air and put it in her coat pocket. Then she caught sight of his brown boots. Her lip dropped.
“I wish, Joe,” she said peevishly, “that you had got yourself a pair of pumps. I told you to a week ago.”
“Ah, all the fellows wear these at the Social, I asked them.”
“Don’t be a fool! As if I didn’t know! You’ll make me look ridiculous with these brown boots. Have you got the cab?”
“Cab!” His jaw fell; did she think he was Carnegie? he said sulkily: “We’re going by tram.”
Her eyes frosted with temper.
“I see! So that’s what you think of me! I’m not good enough to have a cab.”
From the landing above Ada called out:
“Don’t be late, you two. I’ve taken a Daisy powder and I’m going to bed.”
“Don’t you worry, ma,” Jenny answered in a mortal huff. “We certainly shan’t be late.”
They caught a red tram which was, unfortunately, very full. The tram’s fullness made Jenny more sulky, she
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