"Lying little fathead!" observed Mr. Baffin later.
Prudence's faith in our simplicity remained unshaken. "Time you went home to your mother now," Baffin would assert at fitting intervals. And Prudence would answer, "Oo-er, yes; my mother 'll be waitin' for me. I mustn't keep my mother waitin'!"
The value of her services grew less (if possible) at every sitting. Her capacity for wriggling returned to her with unabated force: the giggles came back, too, and the original fund of anecdote.
Mr. Baffin congratulated himself on these signs. "We'll keep up the pretence at 'sitting' a little longer," he said, "and then I'll deny myself the luxury of her assistance for a month or two. We'll call it a 'cure' on Monday."
But when Monday came, I noticed at once certain evidences of a "relapse" in Prudence. The tears had come back, and the sulks and the silence. Even Baffin's reminder that mother's hour for being visited had arrived did not seem to move her. "I'm an un'eppy gel, I am," said Prudence.
"I want to ask you something, Mr. Baffin."
"Yes, yes," said Baffin.
"I—I on'y wanted to arst you," Prudence was saying, "do—do you believe in bookmakers?"
"What?" said Baffin.
Prudence repeated her inquiry.