“Jane!” he called morosely—“Jane Clermont!”
A lagging step came down the stair, and a girl entered, black-eyed, creole in effect. Her cheeks held the flame of the wild-cherry leaf.
“Where is your sister?”
“I have no sister.”
The old man struck the table with his open hand. “Where is Mary, I say?”
“At the door.”
“Go and see what she is doing.”
The girl stood still, regarding her stepfather with a look that under its beauty had a sullen half-contempt.
“Why don’t you do as I tell you?”
“I’m not going to be a spy for you, even if you did marry my mother. I’m tired of it.”