“Probably the friends are at least as anxious to discover the child as you can be to discover them,” said Mr. Meredith.
“Unless,” Mrs. Tracy observed—“unless somebody meant to leave it there.”
“Oh, impossible!” cried Dulcibel, from a constitutional instinct of contradiction. She had herself made the same suggestion, and Leo’s laughing face showed recollection of hearing her do so. “Such a little darling!”
Mrs. Tracy surveyed the small subject of discussion.
“Something just a degree vixenish about her, isn’t there?” she asked. “I’m not quite sure that I should care to deal with that nature by-and-by.”
“Oh, but so lovable!” said Dulcibel. “Look at her now with my husband!” And indeed the upward glance of those black eyes into the face of the big fair man to whom the little creature had attached herself could hardly have been surpassed in tenderness.
“Yes, that is quite charming,” assented Mrs. Tracy; “but—” and she shook her head—“but—”
Conversation drifted in other directions, and Joan was more or less forgotten. She stood so very still that forgetfulness was not difficult. George fed her now and then with scraps, as he might have fed a pet dog; and she consented to be so treated. A basin of bread and milk had been already disposed of upstairs, therefore more was not needed. If Leo, on Joan’s other side, offered anything, he met with the usual severe refusal.
Dinner over, and the move into the drawing-room made, Joan calmly climbed upon George’s knee, evidently satisfied that he had nothing better in life to do than to nurse her small self. Dulcibel remonstrated, but George would not turn the child away. He read the paper, with the dark head lying placidly on his shoulder; and when it was decided that Joan must go to bed George carried her upstairs.
“Just for once,” he said, half laughing; “we shall find her people to-morrow, poor wee mite!” There was a sound of regret in his voice. Somehow he did not wish to give her up.