Читать книгу Exile - Warwick Deeping - Страница 21

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Billy, running up to her room to change into a black frock and lace apron, found Winnie Haycroft sitting at her window, and looking vague and tired.

“O, you’ve been playing tennis. I wish I could. I just came across——”

Billy was becoming accustomed to Winnie’s unfinished sentences and her general air of mental untidiness.

“Well, why don’t you?”

She screwed her racket up in its press, for rackets were precious.

“O, damn, look at that!”

A white stocking had laddered, and stockings were part of the problems of life when you earned some three pounds a week and tried to send spare cash home to your mother.

“Isn’t that disgusting! Only worn them twice. I’ve got to change. Come in.”

Winnie got up languidly and followed the warmth and the vigour of Billy into the bedroom, and sat on the bed and looked vague and anæmic.

“You are strong. I can’t play here. I get so tired.”

Billy dropped her white skirt, and stepped out of it. She was experiencing Winnie’s dusty devotion, and liking it, because it was a tribute, and because Winnie made her feel motherly.

“Perhaps it is because you don’t try to play. Have to keep fit. I say, hunt me out a pair of black stockings; top drawer, left.”

Winnie put a hand to her head and felt for the stockings. She appreciated Billy like a northern breeze.

“It’s getting no change. This place—stuffy. I came across to see if you would come to the cine to-night.”

“Yes. What’s on?”

“That German thing. Rather fine. Shall I call for you at eight?”

“Do. I’m a minute late. Chuck me that apron. One gets jolly hot here.”

The pale girl seemed to wince.

“Hot——! Why—later on—I feel I can’t breathe. One’s like a bit of wet wool.”