Once, some few weeks after her arrival, stopping at the stationer’s and bookseller’s shop kept by Mr. Dixon, in the main street of the town, the footman opened the door, and she got out and went into the shop. Mrs. Dixon came forward to attend to her wants, and was followed by a pretty little girl of some ten years old, a child with a delicate skin, small, oval face, straight little nose, brown hair and eyes—all very neat and clear, and clean and pretty. She hid rather shyly behind her mother.
‘Is that your child?’ asked Miss Wynter, pointing with her parasol at the girl.
‘Yes, miss, this is Ada, our only one.’
‘Oh, indeed! How old is she?’
‘Ten, was a month last Sunday.’
‘Ah, she is a pretty little creature. Does she go to school?’
‘Yes, miss; but it’s her holiday-time now.’
‘I wish you’d let her come home with me, and I’ll show her some pretty things. I am very lonely.’
The last words were spoken in the quiet, uninterested tone in which one says, ‘What a dull day it is!’ as if they hardly referred to herself, but to something outside her.
‘Oh yes, miss, she may go. I’m sure it’s very good of you. But I fear she’ll be a trouble to you.’