that it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you should come walking in. I had a premonition, I don’t know what else you’d call it—”
“Oh, my God!” groaned the girl, good-humoredly, but with a shade of annoyance. “Don’t start that Pentland spooky stuff! It makes my flesh crawl.”
She exchanged a glance of burlesque entreaty with Luke. Winking, he turned suddenly, and with an idiotic laugh, tickled Eliza sharply.
“Get away!” she shrieked.
He chortled madly.
“I’ll declare, boy!” she said fretfully. “I believe you’re crazy. I’ll vow I do!”
Helen laughed huskily.
“Well,” said Eliza, “how’d you leave Daisy and the children?”
“They’re all right, I suppose,” said Helen wearily. “Oh, my God! Deliver me!” she laughed. “You never saw such pests! I spent fifty dollars on them in toys and presents alone! You’d never think it from the thanks I get. Daisy takes it all as her due! Selfish! Selfish! Selfish!”
“For G-g-god’s sake!” said Luke loyally.
She was one fine girl.
“I paid for everything I got at Daisy’s, I can assure you!” she said, sharply, challengingly. “I spent no more time there than I had to. I was at Mrs. Selborne’s nearly all the time. I had practically all my meals there.”
Her need for independence had become greater; her hunger for dependents acute. Her denial of obligation to others was militant. She gave more than she received.
“Well, I’m in for it,” she said presently, trying to mask her strong eagerness.
“In for what?” asked Luke.
“I’ve gone and done it at last,” she said.
“Mercy!” shrieked Eliza. “You’re not married, are you?”
“Not yet,” said Helen, “but I will be soon.”
Then she told them about Mr. Hugh T. Barton, the cash register salesman. She spoke loyally and kindly of him, without great love.
