“To prison!”
“Oh, yes. You’ll call it a school, I know. You ain’t the first that’s tried that on. It won’t work.” The bright, black eyes were flashing passionately. “I ain’t done any harm. I’m willing to work. I can keep myself. I always have. What’s it got to do with anybody else?”
Had the bright, black eyes retained their expression of passionate defiance, Peter Hope might have retained his common sense. Only Fate arranged that instead they should suddenly fill with wild tears. And at sight of them Peter’s common sense went out of the room disgusted, and there was born the history of many things.
“Don’t be silly,” said Peter. “You didn’t understand. Of course I’m going to give you a trial. You’re going to ‘do’ for me. I merely meant that we’d leave the details till to-morrow. Come, housekeepers don’t cry.”
The little wet face looked up.
“You mean it? Honour bright?”
“Honour bright. Now go and wash yourself. Then you shall get me my supper.”
The odd figure, still heaving from its paroxysm of sobs, stood up.
“And I have my grub, my lodging, and sixpence a week?”
“Yes, yes; I think that’s a fair arrangement,” agreed Mr. Peter Hope, considering. “Don’t you, Mrs. Postwhistle?”