Fanny betrayed in her face the Italian origin of her father. She had that exceeding richness of complexion which, though not common even in Italy, is only to be found in the daughters of that land, and which harmonised well with the purple lustre of her hair, and the full, clear iris of the dark eyes. Never were parted cherries brighter than her dewy lips; and the colour of the open neck and the rounded arms was of a whiteness still more dazzling, from the darkness of the hair and the carnation of the glowing cheek.
Suddenly Fanny started from Gawtrey’s arms, and running up to Morton, gazed at him wistfully, and said, in French:
“Who are you? Do you come from the moon? I think you do.” Then, stopping abruptly, she broke into a verse of a nursery-song, which she chaunted with a low, listless tone, as if she were not conscious of the sense. As she thus sang, Morton, looking at her, felt a strange and painful doubt seize him. The child’s eyes, though soft, were so vacant in their gaze.
“And why do I come from the moon?” said he.
“Because you look sad and cross. I don’t like you—I don’t like the moon; it gives me a pain here!” and she put her hand to her temples. “Have you got anything for Fanny—poor, poor Fanny?” and, dwelling on the epithet, she shook her head mournfully.
“You are rich, Fanny, with all those toys.”
“Am I? Everybody calls me poor Fanny—everybody but papa;” and she ran again to Gawtrey, and laid her head on his shoulder.
“She calls me papa!” said Gawtrey, kissing her; “you hear it? Bless her!”
“And you never kiss any one but Fanny—you have no other little girl?” said the child, earnestly, and with a look less vacant than that which had saddened Morton.
“No other—no—nothing under heaven, and perhaps above it, but you!” and he clasped her in his arms. “But,” he added, after a pause—“but mind me, Fanny, you must like this gentleman. He will be always good to you: and he had a little brother whom he was as fond of as I am of you.”