Ladybird took the new-comer by the hand, drew her into the room, and shut the door.
“I wanted to see you,” she explained, “before I make up my mind what I am going to do. I suppose it’s all true,—of course it must be,—that you’re Lavinia Flint’s daughter, and I’m not, though we are both the children of John Lovell.”
“Goodness,” said the yellow-haired girl, “you talk like a lawyer!”
“I am serious,” said Ladybird, with all her dignity, and she had a good deal, “because I have to be. It’s a pretty big thing to think that you’re not the person you thought you were; especially after you’ve had to fight for your place, anyhow.”
“You talk like a lawyer”
“What are you talking about?” said the other.
“Never you mind what I’m talking about,” said Ladybird; “the question is, What can you talk about? If you’re going to live here with my aunts,—with your aunts, I mean,—and I suppose you are, can you love them and do as much for them as I could?”
At this Ladybird, much to her own disgust, broke down entirely, and wept again on Cloppy’s already soaking back.
“Don’t be silly,” said her visitor. “I think you’re making a great fuss over nothing; probably we’ll both stay here. That would suit me, and I’m sure there’s room enough.”