“I really don’t know,” she faltered. “A few years—I mean a few months old—about six weeks, perhaps.”
“Is the baby your own, ma’am?” enquired Mrs. Brown in a tone of surprise.
“Oh, dear, no!” cried Prudence aghast. “It is not my child at all. As a matter of fact, I am not married.”
“Indeed! You’ll excuse me asking the question, ma’am; but in a matter of business like this you understand one has to be particular, with such a fine, comfortable, ’appy ’ome as I’ve to offer too; and might I enquire exactly what relation the pretty dear is to you? All communications, ma’am, are treated in strict confidence.”
“She is my sister.”
“Your sister!” gasped Mrs. Brown, looking Prudence up and down. “Oh! your sister’s. And now, ma’am, excuse my asking, but is your sister a married lady?”
“Of course not,” said Prudence, adding with a sickly smile, “I think you might be pretty sure of that?”
“Of course not!” repeated Mrs. Brown under her breath in a tone of deep astonishment. “Of course not!” adding to herself, happily unheard by Prudence, “well, of all the braigen! and she lookin’ so quiet too.”
“Well, ma’am,” she continued aloud, “under them circumstances of course you understand my terms is according.”
“According to what?”