Fuchsia glanced sharply at Sophy, who was carefully manipulating a large bow.
Was she recalling a domestic picture? Did any suspicion sink into her simple mind? If such was the case the girl gave no sign.
“These drug-maniacs’ lives are a real burden,” continued Fuchsia; “they become indolent and slovenly; all they want in the whole world is more, and more, and more—cocaine. The effect on some is to clear and stimulate the brain and, for a short time, they seem superhuman; but soon this marvellous illumination that has flared up dies down like a fire of straw, and leaves them nothing but the cold ashes.”
“Fuchsia,” said her companion, suddenly raising her head and gazing at her steadily, “I believe you are thinking of someone.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Tell me who it is.”
But Fuchsia merely looked down on the ground and maintained an unusual silence.
“Do you know anyone that the cap fits?” persisted Sophy. Then, with a quick movement, she put the hat aside and, confronting her companion, said, “Surely—surely, you don’t mean Aunt Flora?”
Fuchsia’s reply was a slow, deliberate nod.
“Oh, Fuchsia, this is too dreadful—how can you? Tell me—why you have such a hideous suspicion?”