“What is your name, my dear?” he asked. “Eh? Couldn’t you manage to say it? What do they call you? Not ‘Baby,’ I expect. You are too old to be baby! Come, tell your name, won’t you? Tell me!”
George looked indescribably coaxing, and the drawn brows relaxed in some degree.
“What’s your name, eh?” repeated George.
“Doan!” came at length, with clear incisive utterance.
“Joan; John and Joan! Yes, it must be that.”
“If it isn’t Gone, and Don’t,” said George. He rubbed his head, and combed out his long silky beard with perplexed fingers. “Here my little dear,” he said, stooping again, “tell me now, won’t you? Where’s mother?”
Silence.
“What on earth are we to do?” asked George.
“Take her to the hotel,” suggested Leo.
“There’s no hurry about going back,” observed Dulcibel, delighted to put off the evil moment of bridge crossing. “It won’t take us more than an hour to walk.”