“A deary me!” said the old woman again—she dropped two curtseys—one to the bed and another to the fire. “I never held with grandeur. It’s all very well for them as was born to it, but folks like you and me, Clary, we ain’t meant to have it, and it don’t agree with us. Why, you’re the color of a duck’s egg in complexion now, and your freckles seem to have spread.”
“Oh, mother, what do you want?” said Clara. “What have you come about?”
“Aye, aye, that’s the mystery,” said little Mrs. Ives, her small eyes dancing.
“Is there anything wrong with the child?”
“You’ll hear in a minute, my deary dear. Oh, I’ll sit near you if you wish, but not close to the fire—it shrivels up the complexion, and it’s making you as green as can be.”
“What have you got to say?” exclaimed Mrs. Tarbot. She had great difficulty in restraining herself from using angry words.
“You was always one for your tempers, Clara. But never mind, I has come to say——”
“What, mother?”
“That I have brought the child back to London.”
“And why, may I ask?”