"But they don't treat you so, mother. And you are of my class, as you call it."
"Am I? Well, granting all that, you forget I am blind. My affliction brings me more in touch with them. I would have no feeling of superiority—I could not; so they come nearer to me, perhaps. Or else I have fallen among pleasanter people. Look your sweetest now, and try once more. I'm sure you will find some warmer currents in this frozen stream, if you sound it well."
Joyce smilingly pressed the gentle hand that caressed her own.
"I'll make another plunge," she said more hopefully. "Ah! here's Mr. Dalton. I think he looks a bit triste, too. Good evening again, Mr. Dalton. I want to ask you a question, please. Can you tell me who is that man with the brown hair and bristling red beard, over in that group by the door—there, he is just moving on."
"That? Oh yes, I see. Why, his name is Hapgood—Bill Hapgood, as we all call him. His girl Lucy is here somewhere—a good child, sadly overworked. He's no good, though; always quarreling with his bread and butter, and much too fond of the saloon."
"Lucy Hapgood's father!" exclaimed Joyce under her breath, turning surprised eyes upon Madame Bonnivel, as if that lady could meet her speaking glance.
And so she could in spirit, for her perceptions amounted almost to mind-reading. A smile of amusement lit up her sweet face, as she cried merrily,
"Father and daughter, are they? What a coincidence!"
Dalton looked from one to the other, uncomprehending.
Then his gaze lingered on Joyce's flushing cheek. As she made no effort to explain he said, presently, "I thought Mrs. Bonnivel might like some refreshments, and I told Mr. Driscoll, if he would take his wife and sister I would come for you two ladies. But he said they had gone home with the baby."