the window opened on to chimney-pots. Paul watched her thin hands and her flat red wrists as she excitedly 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, reproachful.
“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 blacklead.
“Oh, kisses for my birthday,” he laughed. “How did you know?”
“Yes, you want to know, don’t you?” Fanny mocked, hugely 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,” Fanny 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, lavishly tender. She was thirty-nine. “No, my duck, because you don’t think yourself a fine figure in marble and us nothing but dirt. I’m as good as you, aren’t I, Paul?” and the question delighted her.
“Why, we’re not better than one another, are we?” he replied.
“But I’m as good as you, aren’t I, Paul?” she persisted daringly.
“Of course you are. If it comes to goodness, you’re better.”
She was rather afraid of the situation. She might get hysterical.
“I thought I’d get here before the others—won’t they say I’m deep! Now shut your eyes——” she said.
“And open your mouth, and see what God sends you,” he continued, suiting action to words, and expecting a piece of chocolate. He heard the rustle of the apron, and a faint clink of metal. “I’m going to look,” he said.
