“We are poor too—church mice aren’t in it!”
“But not like us; we have not enough money to travel, or to live in England.”
“Come, come, my dear girl,” protested Lyddy, suddenly planting her elbows on the table, and staring into her face, “don’t be a little ostrich! Surely you know—ah, here come our Pêche Melbas at last!”
“About what?” enquired Cara, plunging in her ready spoon.
“About your mother, my dear.”
“My mother! What about her?” The girl’s face was expressive of profound indifference.
“Can’t you guess? Well, look here, promise me you won’t ever give me away?”
“All right,” agreed Cara with a nod. “I can keep a secret—I know lots!”
“Tell me, have you never wondered, why you live out here?”
“Yes, but I’ve told you the reason.—We are so disgustingly poor.”