A low seat had been put by the hearth-rug in readiness. The child approached, swinging her long arms awkwardly, and seated herself on the edge of it.
“Your name is Ada, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t a father or mother, have you, Ada?”
“No.”
“That is why you are come to live with me. I haven’t a little girl of my own, so I’m going to take care of you, and treat you like my own child. Do you think you can be happy with me?”
“I don’t know.”
The child spoke with a detestable London working-class accent, which made her voice grate on Isabel’s ears even more than it otherwise would have done.
“I shall do my very best to be kind to you,” Isabel continued, after a struggle with her feelings. “Have you been happy till now—I mean with the other people in London?”
“No,” was the decided answer.