The moment he turned his back he displayed a detail of his dress that had not been visible before. This detail, at first glance, appeared to be a smart leather piping. On second glance it seemed a sort of shawl-strap contrivance by which the talking-machine was suspended. But in the end she knew what it was—a leather harness!—an exceedingly handsome, silver-buckled, hand-sewed harness!
She went around him and raised a smiling face—caught at a hand, too; and felt her own happy tears make cool streaks down her cheeks. "I—I don't see you often," she said, "bu-but I know you just the same. You're—you're my fath-er!"
At that, he glanced down at her—stooped—picked a candle—and held it close to her face.
"Poor little girl!" he said. "Poor little girl!"
"Poor little rich girl," she prompted, noting that he had left out the word.
She heard a sob!
The next moment, Rustle! Rustle! Rustle! And at her feet the gay-topped candles were bent this way and that—as Miss Royle, with an artful serpent-smile on her bandaged face, writhed her way swiftly between them!
"Dearie," she hissed, making an affectionate half-coil about Gwendolyn, "what do you think I'm going to say to you!"
Gwendolyn only shook her head.
"Guess, darling," encouraged the governess, coiling herself a little closer.