“Does she?” She shook her head, testing the solidity of the anchorage. “She’ll be back singing before the spring. You don’t know, but it’s in her blood. We can’t keep off, none of us. And she! Just wait. That’s all she’s made for.”
The little Stregazzi had come to an end of her adventure against the newel post. She lolled upon it, wiping the crevices with her fingers, then looking at her gloves to see how much dirtier they were.
Her mother descended a step, paused, cogitated, then turned to me, frowning.
“I suppose he’s done nothing for her?”
I saw she meant money. The astonishing rawness of it made me redden to my hair. She waited for my answer, blind apparently to the expression of anger which must have been as plain as my outraged blush.
“As to that—” I began haughtily.
“He hasn’t. Well, I’ll send her round fifty dollars to-morrow and if that’s not enough drop me a line at mother’s and I’ll forward some more. This is the best contract I’ve ever had.”
When I explained and tried to thank her for Lizzie she laughed.
“Oh, don’t bother to tell her about it. It’s all in the day’s work. If you’ve got some rich woman interested in her so much the better. But, dearie,” she laid her hand on mine resting on the banister, “don’t you fret about her. She’ll go back to the old stamping ground.”
When I went back into the room Lizzie was sitting in the wicker chair gazing out of the window. She spoke without looking at me.