“Jove, she does look like Harry!” muttered Mr. Evringham, and even as he spoke the plain little face was illumined with the smile he knew, that surpassingly sweet smile which promised so much and performed nothing.
The child studied him with open, innocent curiosity.
“I can't believe it's you,” she said at last, in a voice light and winning, a voice as sweet as the smile.
“I don't wonder. I don't quite know myself this morning,” he replied brusquely.
“We have a picture of you, but it's a long-ago one, and I thought by this time you would be old, and—and bent over, you know, the way grandpas are.”
Even in that place of drays and at eight o'clock A.M. these words fell not disagreeably upon irritated ears.
“I think myself Nature did not intend me to be a grandpa,” he replied.
“Oh, yes, you're just the right kind,” returned the child hastily and confidently. “Strong and—and handsome.”
Mr. Evringham looked at her in amazement. “The little rascal!” he thought. “Has she been coached?”
“I suppose we may get away from here now,” he said aloud. “There's nothing more to wait for.”