Davie’s howls recommenced.
Matthew Strang’s heart contracted. He went half-way down the stairs to where Rosina ministered to her bruised offspring.
“I didn’t send you the flower, Rosina,” he said, gently. “It’s a gift from the child.”
“Oh, is it? Then he’s better-hearted than his father, that’s all I can say. Thank you, my poor darling, thank you. Dry your little eyes, and mummy shall take you out to see all the pretty shops.”
“Won’t you come up-stairs and finish your tea, Rosina?” Matthew pleaded.
“I’m busy,” she said, tartly. “I’m giving Clara her tea. She’s just come home from school.”
“Let her bring her tea up-stairs; then she can talk to me.”
“I’ll tell her you’re here. I dare say she’ll remember you—she generally gets something out of you.”
He bit his lips to keep back angry speech, and remounted to the drawing-room. Clara came close upon his footsteps, and ran to offer her lips. She was a tall child of seven, with a low forehead, dark hair and eyebrows, a heavy jaw, and a high color—handsome after a rather Gallic fashion. The painter always trod gingerly with her, knowing she had her grandmother’s temper. Rosina, lacking the clew, was less delicate with the girl, whose sullen phases irritated her immeasurably. This afternoon Clara was conciliated by sixpence, and chatted amicably with her father about her lessons. Presently her mother came up too, with Davie in her train, and there was the outward spectacle of a happy family group united at tea. The painter was emboldened to strengthen an idea that was gradually forming in his mind by expressing it.
“Billy feels very lonely down in this part of the town,” he began, timidly.