“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with me,” she replied carelessly, her eyes filling with tears, nevertheless.
“I hear that I have been an uncle for some time past.”
“Yes, on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“What is its name?” he said more gravely.
“Lucy.”
“Is it quite well?”
“I suppose not. According to Nurse, it is always ill.”
Conolly shrugged his shoulders, and relapsed into the cynical manner in which he had used to talk with his sister. “Tired of it already?” he said. “Poor little wretch!”
“It is very well off,” she retorted, angrily: “a precious deal better than I was at its age. It gets petting enough from its father, heaven knows! He has nothing else to do. I have to work.”
“You have it all your own way at the theatre now, I suppose. You are quite famous.”