The waiter grinned and obeyed; but Joan declined the chair. She slid to the ground, and stood there solemnly, clutching George’s coat; her velvety eyes just above the level of the table. If anybody smiled at Joan, the response was an immediate frown; otherwise she seemed indifferent to her surroundings. Curiosity was evidently rife; and George briefly sketched, for the benefit of his near neighbors, the manner in which Joan had been found.
“I wasn’t far wrong. It’s a river-maid, not a mermaid!” said Mr. Meredith.
“It’s a very odd little mortal, anyhow,” the stout widow, Mrs. Tracy, remarked. She sat on the other side of the table, a few seats lower down. “What do you think of doing with her?”
“Put her to sleep on the sofa in our room,” said George.
“I am afraid your night’s rest will be broken. And then?”
“Find out to whom she belongs.”
“And if you cannot?”
“It is well never to start in an enterprise expecting failure,” said George.
“But still—”
“And this is not London.”