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They all liked him, and he
adored them. Polly he felt he belonged to. Then Connie, with her mane of
red hair, her face of apple-blossom, her murmuring voice, such a lady in
her shabby black frock, appealed to his romantic side.
"When you sit winding," he said, "it looks as if you were spinning at
a spinning-wheel--it looks ever so nice. You remind me of Elaine in the
'Idylls of the King'. I'd draw you if I could."
And she glanced at him blushing shyly. And later on he had a sketch
he prized very much: Connie sitting on the stool before the wheel, her
flowing mane of red hair on her rusty black frock, her red mouth shut
and serious, running the scarlet thread off the hank on to the reel.
With Louie, handsome and brazen, who always seemed to thrust her hip at
him, he usually joked.
Emma was rather plain, rather old, and condescending. But to condescend
to him made her happy, and he did not mind.
"How do you put needles in?" he asked.
"Go away and don't bother."
"But I ought to know how to put needles in.


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