"Well,—er," (she felt uncertain) "there are some step-houses just across the street."
"Not the same thing," he declared shortly. "But, hm! hm!"—as he coughed, he waved an arm cheerily. "Things will improve. Oh, yes. All you've got to do is follow my advice."
The gray eyes were wistful, and questioning.
"You've got a lot to do," he went on. "Oh, a great deal. For instance"—here he paused, running his fingers through his long hair—"there's Miss Royle, and Thomas, and Jane."
She was silent for a long moment. Miss Royle! Thomas! Jane! In the joy of being out of doors, of having real dirt to scuff in, and high grass through which to brush; of having a plaid gingham with a pocket, and all the fizzing drink she wished; of being able to dabble and wade; and of having good, squashy soda-mud for pies—in the joy at all this she had utterly forgotten them!
She looked up at the tapered trees, and down at the flower-bordered ground; then at the bill-board, and the loaded tables of that marvelous establishment. There was still so much to see! And, oh, how many scores of questions to ask!
He bent until his beard swept the sauce-box. "You'll just have to keep out of their clutches," he declared.
Again she nodded, twisting and untwisting her fingers. "I thought maybe they didn't come here."
"Come?" he grunted. "Won't they be hunting you? Well, keep out of their clutches, I say. That's absolutely necessary. You'll see why—if you let 'em get you! For—how'll you ever find your father?"
"Oh!" A sudden flush swept her face. She looked at the ground. She had forgotten Miss Royle and Thomas and Jane. Worse! Until that moment she had forgotten her father and mother!