Mrs. Waters shortly appeared, her face red with heat, from the kitchen.
"I've brought my little girl along, as I told you," said Martin.
"So this is your little girl, is it? She's a nice child," said Mrs. Waters, rather surprised to find that a man of Mr. Martin's unpromising exterior had so attractive a child.
"No, she isn't," said Martin, shaking his head. "She's very badly behaved. I've let her stay in New York with some relations, and she didn't want to come back and see father. She's been making a great fuss about it."
"She'll feel better to-morrow," said Mrs. Waters. "How old is she?"
"Seven years old."
"Just the age of my Fanny."
"You said you could let her occupy the same bed with your little girl."
"Yes, they can sleep together. Fanny will like to have a girl of her own age to play with. Wait a minute,—I'll call her."
Fanny Waters was a short, dumpy little girl, of extreme plainness. Rose looked at her, but didn't appear to feel much attracted.