“And eat a bit of bread with butter on it?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Then I’ll go.”
She drew him down the hall. “Why do you like to have me come to your house?” he prattled away.
She turned on him with a look which unfortunately Mr. Sylvester could not see. “Because your eyes are so blue and your skin is so white; they make me remember her!”
“And who is her?”
She laughed and seemed to hug herself in her rage and bitterness. “Your mother!” she cried, and in speaking it, she came upon Mr. Sylvester.
He at once put out his hand.
“I don’t know who you are,” said he, “but I do not think you had better take the child out to-night. From what you say, his father is evidently upstairs; if you will give the boy to me, I will take him back and leave him where he belongs.”
“You will?” The slow intensity of her tone was indescribable. “Know that I don’t bear interference from strangers.” And catching up the child, she rushed by him like a flash. “You are probably one of those missionaries who go stealing about unasked into respectable persons’ rooms,” she called back. “If by any chance you wander into his, tell him his child is in good hands, do you hear, in good hands!” And with a final burst of her hideous laugh, she dashed down the stairs and was gone.