“Mind you, I look on Belle as just as good as a whole sister,” he remarked. “I don’t make any difference.”
Hammond smiled.
“She is kind to you, then?” At least he might have the pleasure of listening to Belle Yorke’s praise.
“Well, I don’t know that you can call it kind,” said the boy, with another touch of resentment at the implied inferiority. “She’s just like any other sister. She knits my stockings for me, and does whatever I want her to. She’s not a bad sort.”
“She must be fond of you,” observed the man, gazing at the ungrateful little wretch with wondering amusement.
“Yes, oh, she’s fond of me! When I had the chicken-pox she took me to Brighton for a fortnight, all at her own expense, and stayed with me all the time, and wouldn’t go out anywhere, though she had lots of invitations. Belle’s very good in that way.”
The man felt a strong inclination to shake Belle Yorke’s callous brother, as he thus grudgingly praised her. It was with an uneasy, self-reproachful feeling that he put the next question:
“Your sister must make a good many friends by her singing?”
Mr. Yorke nodded superciliously.
“Yes; but she doesn’t care much for that lot; they’re not very respectable, we think. We don’t like her going on the stage at all; but she wanted to do something to earn her living. As soon as ever I’m a man, and get rich, I’m going to take her out of that and have her live with me.”