“Did you come over in the ship too?”
Sophia Jane paused in the midst of a fantastic dance she was performing, with the poker brandished in one hand.
“Of course not,” she said scornfully. “I’m English.”
“Who are you, then?” asked Susan. She felt that the question sounded rude, but it was a thing that she must know.
“I’m an orphan,” said Sophia Jane cheerfully, and she took an agile leap on to one of the old bores.
Susan gazed at her. She was not at all her idea of an orphan. In pictures they always wore black and looked sad, and at home there was a crossing-sweeper who said he was an orphan, and seemed to think it a hard thing, and that he was much to be pitied. Then another thought struck her: “If Aunt Hannah’s your aunt as well as mine, I suppose we’re cousins—ain’t we?” she asked.
“She isn’t,” said Sophia Jane, swinging her arms round and preparing to jump off the box. “We all call her Aunt. She likes it better. See if you can jump as far as I can.”
In these and other amusements the morning passed quickly away in a very different manner to anything Susan had known before. It was certainly better than playing alone, though the attic was bare and Sophia Jane’s speech and behaviour were sometimes strange and startling. Susan almost forgot her home-sickness for a while, and found a companion of her own age far more interesting than imaginary conversations with dolls. After they were both tired of jumping, in which exercise Sophia Jane’s spare form was by far the most successful, the headless body of the murdered doll was dragged out from behind a box and examined.
“She used to be a pretty doll,” said its owner, looking enviously at Grace.
“It’s a pity you killed her,” said Susan, “because we could play at so many more things if we had a doll each.”