"You must be a very selfish woman—I think the most selfish I have ever known," she said coolly, tapping the floor with her little slippered feet, as if keeping time to a waltz.
"I—selfish?"
"Yes, you—selfish. And, by the by, what right have you to keep the boy at all? Certainly, he resembles you in nothing. What relation does he hold to you?"
"He is—he is my ward," answered Miss Elisabetha, nervously rearranging her scarf. "I bid you, madame, good day."
"Ward!" pursued Kernadi; "that means nothing. Was his mother your sister?"
"Nay; his mother was a Spanish lady," replied the troubled one, who knew not how to evade or lie.
"And the father—you spoke of him—was he a relative?"
A sudden and painful blush dyed the thin old face, creeping up to the very temples.
"Ah," said the singer, with scornful amusement in her voice, "if that is all, I shall take the boy without more ado"; and, lifting her glasses, she fixed her eyes full on the poor face before her, as though it was some rare variety of animal.
"You shall not have him; I say you shall not!" cried the elder woman, rousing to the contest like a tigress defending her young.