“No,” I said. “It's her mother's.”
“Don't you believe it,” she cried. “It's a blind. You mark, it's her own right enough—and his.”
“No,” I said. “It's her mother's. 'He has sweet smiling eyes, but not like your beautiful English eyes——'”
She suddenly struck her hand on her skirt with a wild motion, and bent down, doubled with laughter. Then she rose and covered her face with her hand.
“I'm forced to laugh at the beautiful English eyes,” she said.
“Aren't his eyes beautiful?” I asked.
“Oh yes—very! Go on!—Joey dear, dee-urr Joey!”—this to the peacock.
“—Er—'We miss you very much. We all miss you. We wish you were here to see the darling baby. Ah, Alfred, how happy we were when you stayed with us. We all loved you so much. My mother will call the baby Alfred so that we shall never forget you——'”
“Of course it's his right enough,” cried Mrs. Goyte.
“No,” I said. “It's the mother's. Er—'My mother is very well. My father came home yesterday—from Lille. He is delighted with his son, my little brother, and wishes to have him named after you, because you were so good to us all in that terrible time, which I shall never forget. I must weep now when I think of it. Well, you are far away in England, and perhaps I shall never see you again. How did you find your dear mother and father? I am so happy that your leg is better, and that you can nearly walk——'”