Two of the people, man and wife, looked at each other. "Yes," they said. And the other man said, "Yes."
"Did you bring any pictures?"
They handed her pictures, and she held them up to the overhead torch. She studied them critically, pursing and unpursing her lips in secret calculation.
"This one," she said finally, holding out one of the pictures.
The man and wife rustled their clothing; they smiled faintly proud at each other.
The other man got up slowly, retrieved his picture, left the room without saying a word.
"We can't do for little Lavada," the woman whined. "She was a late child, and we're getting old, and we thought she would be better here. It's hard to do for a growing girl when you get old. And my husband can't keep steady work, because of his health and ..."
"I'm sure she will be happy here," the Madame said, smiling.
"Yes," the man agreed. "It's for the best. But—you know—well, we hate to do it."
"How old is she?"