“Will nobody ever come to me till I’m old—old—old?”
“Will nobody ever come to you?” Mrs. Lee repeated, puzzling.
Tragedy rushed on, interrupting her.
“This is my Wonderful Day—my only, one, Wonderful Day. And somebody should come—he should come....”
“He? Oh, you mean Jack.”
“I don’t! I dare say he’s nice—a thoroughly good man. I’m glad that you’re glad, and all that. But I’m not glad! No, I’m not! I think it’s an outrage. The gray, the bald, the whiskered! Roseborough is full of them already. Another of those is an outrage!”
“My—dear—child! What is an outrage?”
“That another oldish man is coming to Roseborough! I want a fairy prince—or a beggar—or a tramp—if only he is young! He can come to the back door in bare feet and fustian, or in rags and patches. I shan’t mind what he wears or how empty his pockets are, if only he is young—young—and can laugh out loud and say ‘Good-morning, Rosamond!’”
“My—dear! You go so fast; and tears and laughter follow each other so rapidly that I am all in a whirl. But if you think my Jack....”
Rosamond broke in impetuously: