“Please, godmother,” said Iris, with a great effort, “I want you to let me read to you while Miss Munnion is away.”
“Oh!” said Mrs Fotheringham.
She stared silently at Iris for a moment, then resumed.
“I’ve no doubt it would be an immense pleasure to listen to you if you read like most children of your age. Anything more?”
Iris became scarlet under her godmother’s fixed gaze, for both she and the parrot seemed to be chuckling silently at her confusion. But she thought of Diana, and of poor Miss Munnion waiting outside, and managed to gasp out:
“Please let Miss Munnion come back.”
“She hasn’t gone yet that I know of,” replied Mrs Fotheringham, without removing her eyes from the child.
“But she must,” continued Iris, “because of Diana.”
“Well, I must say, you are a most extraordinary child,” said the old lady, after another pause, “with your ducks and your Dianas! What is it to you, I should like to know, whether Miss Munnion goes or stays? It doesn’t interfere with your comfort, I suppose.”
Iris could not answer this question, but she stuck to her point, and said in a low voice: