The Snow Globe Read Online Free PDF Page B

of the shadows. Mr. Blundell, the butler, was on his rounds.
    â€œIt’s getting cold. You should go inside,” said Stephen, staring at her.
    â€œI don’t want to. Not yet. I want to stay here and talk to you . . . I feel as though you’re angry with me and I don’t know why. Is itabout the whole Mrs. Christie thing?” she asked. “Because if it is, or was, I’m sorry I was so pigheaded and dragged you into it all. And I’m actually rather cross myself—with
her
.”
    Stephen laughed. He pulled off his cap and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not angry with you. I’m never angry with you. You know that. But I do get . . .”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œFrustrated, I suppose.”
    â€œBy me?”
    â€œYes,” he said quickly, tilting his head to one side, narrowing his eyes.
    â€œI see,” she said, though she didn’t and couldn’t. “Well, I can only apologize . . . because I really don’t mean to be.”
    â€œI know this,” he said.
    It was inevitable that their friendship had changed, Daisy thought, watching him as he continued to stack logs on the barrow, from those days when he’d been eager to see her, turning up at the house most evenings to see what she was doing and spend time with her. It was inevitable, she supposed, that he’d prefer to spend his evenings at a public house. It was what young men like Stephen did, her mother had told her. But Daisy missed his company. Missed their friendship.
    â€œAre you going to the pub?” Daisy asked, adopting his terminology.
    â€œNot sure. Might be,” he said, without looking up.
    Daisy often wondered what went on there—apart from drinking. She’d have liked to be asked, be invited,
and
be allowed to go. The only time she had been to the local public house was last BoxingDay, when the hunt had met there and she and Iris had stood about with their parents holding glasses of punch, then watched the horses and hounds set off in search of some poor fox. She had told Iris then that she thought it all very uncivilized and that she’d not go again. But she’d meant to the hunt, not to the place.
    â€œWell, if you change your mind . . . ,” she said.
    Then Mr. Blundell opened the back door and asked Stephen if the logs were ready, and Daisy turned and went inside.
    She walked down the passageway to the kitchen, said hello to Mrs. Jessop and to Nancy and Hilda, and went up to her room. She threw off her coat, lay down on her bed and thought once more about Mrs. Christie and what, exactly, had driven her to stage her own disappearance. In truth, Daisy still couldn’t believe it had been a publicity stunt. It seemed so drastic, so desperate. It had been a cry for help, Daisy thought, sitting up. And no different from all those times she had run away to the summerhouse; for she had, she suddenly realized, staged a few disappearances herself.
    That evening, the dressing bell sounded at six thirty, the dinner bell at seven twenty-five, but there were only Daisy and her mother at dinner, seated at one end of the long dining table.
    â€œNoonie’s not feeling too grand, is having a tray taken up,” said Mabel, shaking out her white linen napkin. “But I quite like it like this,” she added, smiling. “It’s rather cozy, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, rather cozy,” said Daisy.
    Mabel peered at the bowl of watery green liquid in front of her, then sniffed it. “Cabbage?”
    Daisy shrugged. “Greenery.”
    â€œHolly!” said Mabel. “Holly soup? What an idea,” she added, giggling at her own joke as she picked up her spoon.
    She was in a better mood, Daisy thought. Perhaps Howard had telephoned, or, and more likely, her new best friend, Reggie.
    â€œThey’ll all be upon us next week,” her mother continued. “But quite a few less than I’d