“Yes.”
“I have known several persons of that name,” he said, evasively. “Of course, I can't tell which of them you refer to.”
“The Ida I mean was and is a child,” said Peg. “But, Mr. Somerville, there's no use in beating about the bush, when I can come straight to the point. It is now about eight years since my husband and myself were employed in carrying off a child—a female child of about a year old—named Ida. We placed it, according to your directions, on the door-step of a poor family in New York, and they have since cared for it as their own. I suppose you have not forgotten that.”
John Somerville deliberated. Should he deny it or not? He decided to put a bold face on the matter.
“I remember it,” said he, “and now recall your features. How have you fared since the time I employed you? Have you found your business profitable?”
“Far from it,” answered Peg. “We are not yet able to retire on a competence.”
“One of your youthful appearance,” said Solmerville, banteringly, “ought not to think of retiring under ten years.”
Peg smiled. She knew how to appreciate this speech.
“I don't care for compliments,” said she, “even when they are sincere. As for my youthful appearance, I am old enough to have reached the age of discretion, and not so old as to have fallen into my second childhood.”
“Compliments aside, then, will you proceed to whatever business has brought you here?”