“Mother’s dead,” said Dolly.
I could have bitten out my tongue.
Duke again exerted himself to put matters on a comfortable footing.
“Dolly and I are both orphans,” said he; “babes in old Ripley’s wood.”
“And I am the remorseless ruffian,” I broke in.
“All right. You didn’t know, of course. Look at that girl on the bank, with the crinoline; she might be riding a hobby-horse.”
“Ain’t she a beauty?” said Dolly, enviously. Her own subscribing to the outrageous fashion then fortunately in its decay was limited to her slender means and the necessities of her work.
“You don’t mean to say you admire her?” said I.
“Don’t I, Mr. Trender? Just as she’d admire me if I was dressed like that.”
“Heaven forbid, Dolly. I won’t call you Dolly if you call me Mr. Trender.”