“I think you are the stupidest little creature I ever met!” responded Flower. “I’m to know something, and it’s wonderful that I care to eat. I tell you, child, I haven’t touched food all day, and I’m starving. What’s the matter? Speak! I’ll slap you if you don’t.”
“There’s bread on the sideboard,” said Fly. “I’m sorry you’re starving. It’s only that father is ill; that—that he’s very ill. I don’t suppose it is anything to you, or you wouldn’t have done it.”
“Give me that bread,” said Flower. She turned very white, snatched a piece out of Fly’s hand, and put it to her lips. She did not swallow it, however. A lump seemed to rise in her throat.
“I’m faint for want of food,” she said in a minute. “I’d like some wine. If David was here, he’d give it to me. What’s that about your father? Ill? He was quite well this morning; he spoke to me.”
She shivered.
“I’m awfully faint,” she said in a moment. “Please, Fly, be merciful. Give me half a glass of sherry.”
Fly started, rushed to the sideboard, poured a little wine into a glass, and brought it to Flower.
“There!” she said in a cold though broken-hearted voice. “But you needn’t faint; he’s not your father; you wouldn’t have done it if he was your father.”
Flower tossed off the wine.
“I’m better now,” she said.