“What do you think about it, ma’am?” inquired Roma, to draw the child out.
“I don’t like to say,” she answered.
“Oh, but I insist.”
“Well, then, if Tom had talked that way I should think Tom was not possessed of common sense.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Roma.
“Don’t mind her,” pleaded Marguerite. “She don’t know any better. She is such a strange child. Her mind is not right. I do think she is half an idiot.”
“Oh, no, indeed, she is not. But where did she pick up that phrase she is so often repeating?”
“The Lord knows. I don’t. She has had such a strange life for a child. She has never had any other children to play with—never! nor any permanent nurse; but has been changed from hand to hand as I have traveled from country to country. Don’t mind the poor little devil—I beg pardon. But she is half an idiot.”
Owlet fixed the speaker with her large, solemn brown eyes, but made no remark, nor did Roma; for at that instant Mr. Merritt was announced. He had just returned from his Californian trip, and his first call was upon Roma.
“Well, my dear, have you had any news?” he inquired after he had shaken hands with all in the room and had taken a seat, and Marguerite had been wheeled into the adjoining chamber.