'Oh, she don't hurt!' he said contemptuously. 'She hasn't even got a cane—like at school.'
'But shan't we take our things?' said Becky.
'No, only the things you stand in. They shan't have any excuse for taking you back. I'll find you plenty of clothes, as good as new.'
'And little Daisy?'
'Oh, is it a girl? Your stepmother will look after that. She can't complain of one burden.'
She hustled the children into the cab, where, with the sack and herself, they made a tightly-packed quartette.
'I say, I didn't bargain for extras inside,' grumbled the cabman.
'You can't reckon these children,' said Natalya, with confused legal recollections; 'they're both under seven.'
The cabman started. Becky stared out of the window. 'I wonder if we'll pass Mrs. Elkman,' she said, amused. Joseph busied himself with disentangling the tails of his kite.
But Natalya was too absorbed to notice their indifference to her. That poor little Daisy! The image of the baby swam vividly before her. What a terrible fate to be left in the hands of the public-house woman! Who knew what would happen to it? What if, in her drunken fury at the absence of Becky and Joseph, she did it a mischief? At the best the besotted creature would not take cordially to the task of bringing it up. It was no child of hers—had not even the appeal of pure Jewish blood. And there it lay, smiling, with its beautiful blue eyes. It had smiled trustfully on herself, not knowing she was to leave it to its fate. And now it was crying; she heard it crying above the rattle of the cab. But how could she charge herself with it—she, with her daily rounds to make? The other children were grown up, passed the day at school. No, it was impossible. And the child's cry went on in her imagination louder and louder.