Page 412 - sons-and-lovers

black bodice was short—the waist was under her armpits—
and her green-black cashmere skirt seemed very long, as
she strode with big strides before the young man, himself
so graceful. She went to her seat at the narrow end of the
room, where the window opened on to chimney-pots. Paul
watched her thin hands and her flat red wrists as she ex-
citedly twitched her white apron, which was spread on the
bench in front of her. She hesitated.
‘You didn’t think we’d forgot you?’ she asked, reproach-
ful.
‘Why?’ he asked. He had forgotten his birthday himself.
‘Why,’ he says! ‘Why!’ Why, look here!’ She pointed to
the calendar, and he saw, surrounding the big black number
‘21’, hundreds of little crosses in black-lead.
‘Oh, kisses for my birthday,’ he laughed. ‘How did you
know?’
‘Yes, you want to know, don’t you?’ Fanny mocked, huge-
ly delighted. ‘There’s one from everybody—except Lady
Clara—and two from some. But I shan’t tell you how many
I put.’
‘Oh, I know, you’re spooney,’ he said.
‘There you ARE mistaken!’ she cried, indignant. ‘I could
never be so soft.’ Her voice was strong and contralto.
‘You always pretend to be such a hard-hearted hussy,’ he
laughed. ‘And you know you’re as sentimental—-‘
‘I’d rather be called sentimental than frozen meat,’ Fan-
ny blurted. Paul knew she referred to Clara, and he smiled.
‘Do you say such nasty things about me?’ he laughed.
‘No, my duck,’ the hunchback woman answered, lavish-

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