"We shall starve," said Gracie, answering the question, coldly and impassively.
Inspector Robson coughed behind his hand, and his cough awoke the demon in Gracie's chest to emulation so strong that it straightway set to work, and the spectators had a practical illustration of her statement that it was "enough to twist her head off."
"The child has a bad cough," said Inspector Robson, with a look of pity; "she oughtn't to be out on such a night."
"I would come with mother," said Gracie. "It ain't her fault, it's mine."
The Inspector coughed again, and Gracie's demon followed suit.
"Did your husband drink?" asked the Inspector.
"No, sir, no," said the woman, reproachfully. "How can you ask it? Gracie will tell you. Did father drink, Gracie?"
"Yes," she answered. "Tea. Very weak. I like it strong," and added, "when I can get it."
"I wish I had a cup to give you," said Inspector Robson.
"So do I," said Gracie, "and a cup for mother."