Why I should vent my undeniable irritation upon Alicia I do not know. But I called her into my study as soon as Gertrude had gone and she entered smiling brightly. The child, I believe, looks considerably happier than she did when first she came here and her eyes are less wistful. I was conscious of the sternness of a hanging judge upon my visage. But Alicia ignored my mood. Possibly she has found me out and knows that I am least to be feared when in appearance most despotic.
"Alicia," I began severely, "how are the children getting on? Are they all right?" (What an imbecile query!)
"Oh, yes, sir," she wonderingly answered.
"I mean—are they happy here?" I scowled at her.
"Yes, sir—they think it's lovely."
"Are they—are they afraid of me?" I demanded austerely, looking grimly at my finger nails.
"No-o, sir," she stammered, "they—they are not."
I was terrifying the child, I realized with a pang. But when I looked up suddenly the little vixen seemed to be struggling with laughter—though that can hardly be. She had the manners to turn away. An attaching little baggage is this child, but I'll have no nonsense.
"And you—" I pulled her up sharply, too sharply perhaps, whereat I grinned in mitigation—
"Do you feel competent to go on taking care of them?"