“Yes,” I answered; “just.”
He grunted, and rubbed his bald head, with a look half comical, half aggravated. His eyes were rather blinky and red, and he seemed confused in manner and at a loss for words.
“Dicky,” he said, suddenly, “did you live very well, very rich-like, when mamma was alive?”
“Yes,” I answered; “’cept when mamma said we must retrench, and cried; and by’m-by papa laughed, and threw the rice pudding into the fire, and took us to dine at a palace.”
“And that was—very long before—hey?”
“It was a very little while before mamma went away for good,” I murmured, and hung my head, inclined to whimper.
Mr. Quayle twitched at me compunctious.
“O, come!” he said, “we must all bear our losses like men. They teach us the best in the world to stand square on our own toeses. There! Shall I tell you a story—hey?”
I brightened at once. He knew some good ones. “Yes, please,” I said.
“O, lud!” he exclaimed, rubbing his nose with his eye-glasses. “I am committed! Judex damnatur. Dicky, I sat up late last night, devouring briefs, and they’ve given me an indigestion. Never sit up late, Dicky, or you’ll have to pay for it!”