“You will enjoy yourself next week, Connie,” he said gaily. “Miss Rennie is coming with friends. We’ll have rides, picnics and dancing.”
A few minutes later Connie joined Andy, who sat on the steps of the kitchen door enjoying a breath of fresh air.
A short pause ensued while she searched the pockets of her overalls and produced several neatly folded papers. She extracted one, pressed it smooth, then passed it to Andy.
It was a photograph of an actress dressed for the street, taken from one of the magazines that Donald had given her.
“Oh! She must be wonderful, then!” said Connie earnestly.
She moved closer to Andy, unfolded another page, and spread it on her knee.
Andy bent his blond head close to the one of gold. A startled look crossed his features and his brows bobbed up and down. It was a full-page advertisement of ladies’ lingerie. The highly coloured illustration of a lady, partially dressed, achieved its object of arresting the eye, while the remainder of the space was occupied by articles of apparel similar to those adorning the lady’s graceful form.
Connie raised her eyebrows incredulously.
Connie stared. “Why, there must be nearly a dozen pieces. How is this fastened?” she questioned as she pointed with a slender brown finger to one of the engravings.
“Buttons,” replied Andy, gripping the bowl of his pipe and sending out clouds of smoke.
“Strike me blind, what a ’ell of an ’ole,” thought Andy.
“Buttons,” he responded desperately without looking at the paper.
Connie raised her head. “Oh no, I don’t think so, Andy; that must slip on,” she objected.
Andy made a pretence of studying the article in question.
“Yes, yes, sure! That’s right! that’s right!” he conceded quickly.
Andy’s pipe was now sending out billows of acrid smoke. Connie coughed and moved beyond the smoke screen. Much to Andy’s relief, she sat for a moment silently studying the advertisement. When she raised her golden head there was a look of wistful yearning in her blue eyes.
“Oh, Andy,” she said dreamily, “it must be lovely to feel those soft silky things next your skin.”
“I’m—I’m sorry, Connie,” stuttered Andy, “but I ’ave a roast in the oven—I——”
“Just a minute, Andy,” she pleaded, “there is something else I want to ask you.” She sorted the papers for a moment.