Maggie had spent
twenty-five shillings on the locket (she had had three pounds put
away from her allowance in her drawer).
It was a very simple locket, thin plain gold round and smooth, but
good, and it would last.
"You darling," whispered Martin. "There couldn't have been anything
more like you if you'd been taken by the grandest photographer in
London."
They started off towards Shaftesbury Avenue where the theatre was,
and as they went a funny little incident occurred. They were both
too happy to talk and Maggie was too happy even to think. Suddenly
she was aware that some one was coming towards her whom she knew.
She looked and tugged herself from that world of Martin and only
Martin in which she was immersed. It was the large, smiling, rosy-
cheeked, white-haired clergyman, Mr. Trenchard. Yes, certainly it
was he. He had recognised her and was stopping to speak to her.
Martin moved on a little and stood waiting for her. She was confused
and embarrassed but pleased too because he seemed glad to see her.
He looked the very picture of a well-dressed, kindly, genial friend
who had known her all his life.
Pages:
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441