"It is."
"Well, then she must have been dead twelve years when I was born."
Now Miss Clement could never do arithmetic. She abominated figures, and these words were uttered with so much conviction—reënforced by the wisdom of his eyes—that her brain became tangled for a moment. It seemed to shrink, in a sort of nervous bewilderment, from this fantastic puzzle. He smiled at her obvious confusion, moved backward a step or two, folded his hands behind him and squirmed with delight. "It's funny you don't understand. I guess I am smarter than you are."
Miss Clement shut tight her lips and looked away—anywhere. Her own brain seemed laughing at her.
"I s'pose," said the Vandal, "I don't need a mother much."
"Every boy needs a mother. Is Joanna your sister?"
He laughed at such an absurd mistake. "No! She's lots older than you are. She's housekeeper—and lots of things."
Miss Clement looked about the room, at the pictures on the walls. They were mostly engravings and photographs.
"Is there a portrait of your mother here?"
"No, ma'am."