"My face ain't my fortune."
"Things don't fit, Connie. You ha' got to stay yere—and be a fine lydy. That's the way you works for yer livin'—I ha' to work in a different sort."
"What sort? Oh, do tel me!"
"No; that's my secret. But I've spoke out plain with the old woman, and I'm comin' yere Saturday night—not to stay, bless yer! no, but to do hodd jobs for her; for one thing, to look arter you when she's out. I 'spect she'll get Ronald back now you ha' come."
"Ronald!" cried Connie. "Who's he?"
"Never you mind; you'll know when yer see of 'im."
"Then I'm a prisoner," said Connie—"that's what it means."
"Well, well! take it like that ef yer like. Ain't it natural that Mrs. Warren should want yer to stay now she ha' got yer? When yer stays willin'-like, as yer will all too soon, then yer'll 'ave yer liberty. Hin an' out then yer may go as yer pleases; there'll be naught to interfere. Yer'll jest do yer dooty then, and yer dooty'll be to please old Mammy Warren."
"Has my father missed me?" asked Connie, who saw by this time that she could not possibly cope with Agnes; if ever she was to effect her escape from this horrible place, it must be by guile.
"'Ow is father?" she asked. "'Ave he missed me yet?"