“Oh, you belong to Bootles. I am sure he must be very proud of you,” Madame answered.
“I believe I’m a great bother to him,” Miss Mignon announced, in a matter-of-fact tone.
Bootles laughed. “Come to the fire, Madame,” he said. Then turning to Miss Grace, “I’m sure you are very cold—you are as white as a ghost. I’m sure,” addressing Lady Marion, “Aunt Marion, wine would be much better than this tea.”
“No, no; tea,” they cried—at least the two elder ladies, for Miss Grace seemed to have no ears for any one but the child.
“Won’t you speak to me?” she asked, presently, as Miss Mignon gravely regarded her with her big blue eyes.
Miss Mignon went close to her immediately. “Did Bootles let you drive?” she asked, with interest.
Miss Grace shook her head, and lifted Miss Mignon onto her knee. “I did not ask him,” she said.
“Oh!” Then, after a pause, “I al—ways do.”
“But not a pair?” in surprise.
Miss Mignon nodded. “When they’re not too fresh. Bootles would have letted you, if you’d asked him.”