‘And a penny in his pocket, la-de-da, la-de-da,—and a penny in his pocket, la-de-da!’
A younger girl, this, of much slighter build; with a frisky gait, a jaunty pose of the head; pretty, but thin-featured, and shallow-eyed; a long neck, no chin to speak of, a low forehead with the hair of washed-out flaxen fluffed all over it. Her dress was showy, and in a taste that set the teeth on edge. Fanny French, her name.
‘What’s up? Another row?’ she asked, entering the room as the servant went out.
‘I’ve known a good many fools,’ said Beatrice, ‘but Ada’s the biggest I’ve come across yet.’
‘Is she? Well, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Fanny admitted impartially. And with a skip she took up her song again. ‘A penny paper collar round his neck, la-de-da—’
‘Are you going to church this morning?’ asked her sister.
‘Yes. Are you?’
‘Come for a walk instead. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’
‘Won’t it do afterwards? I’ve got an appointment.’
‘With Lord?’