Becky was not ill-favored. Her black, silky hair, as fine as a Skye terrier's, curled around a comely head. Her complexion was soft and dark, and her figure light and easy in its movement. These peculiarities, together with her way of fondling the pearls, did not escape Mr. Ricketty's calculating observation.
"Becky," he began blandly.
"Who told you to call me 'Becky'?" she angrily demanded.
"Daughter of Canaan, lend me thine ear, itself as fair as any of these gems of the Southern Sea."
"Oh, come off!" said Becky.
"It has cost me many pangs to bring these jewels here—"
"And you're going to sell them at so much the pang, I s'pose."
"For hours together have I walked up and down the Bowery, trying to rouse my feeble courage. But when I would stop under the three golden balls, I seemed to see a sneer on every passer's lips. They were all saying, 'There goes Steve Ricketty, about to sell his fond mother's pearls.' The thought choked me, Becky, it burned my filial heart."
"Don't seem as if it did your cheek no harm," observed Becky dryly.
"But when I saw your face through the window there, so beautiful and sympathetic, I said to myself, 'There is a true woman. She will feel for me and my grief.' Suppose we make it two hundred and fifty. Come, Becky, the pearls are yours for two hundred and fifty."