"I think she's the prettiest mother in the world," said Rosemary, proudly.
"She don't look much like a mother."
The child opened her eyes very wide at this new point of view. "I couldn't have a mother who looked any other way," she said. "What do you think she does look like?"
"Silly puss! I only mean she isn't much more'n a kid, 'erself."
"She's twenty five, twenty whole years more than me. Isn't that old?"
"Lawkes, no. I'm goin' on seventeen myself. I 'aven't got any father, no more'n you 'ave, so I can feel fur you. Your ma 'as to do typewritin'. Mine does charrin'. It's much the sime thing."
"Is it?" asked Rosemary. "Angel doesn't like typewriting so very well. It makes her shoulder ache, but it isn't that she minds. It's not having enough work to do."
"Bless your hinnercent 'eart, charrin' mikes you ache all over! Betcherlife my ma'd chinge with yours if she could."
"Would she? But Angel doesn't get on at all well here. I've heard her telling a lady she lent some money to, and wanted to have it back, after awhile. You see, when we were left poor, people said that she could make lots of money in Paris, because they pay a good deal there for the things Angel does; but others seemed to have got all the work for themselves, before we went over to Paris to live, so some friends she had told her it would be better to try here where there was no—no com—com—"
"No compertishun," suggested the would-be nursery governess.