Betty's lips moved, but no sound left them. She just sat dumbly there gazing into her grandsire's face.
The old man sat down on the pink bonnet. He was not in the least anxious over her name. She was a schoolmate of John's, of course; he had often stumbled over these active eager little creatures in the back yard, in the near paddock, by the emus' run, near the pigeon-boxes, on the staircase. Only hitherto they had been of John's own sex. This pretty little nervous girl interested him.
He drew her magazine towards him.
"We're waiting for the name—aren't we, Jack?" he said.
Then Betty realized that her hour was indeed come. She rose to her feet and stood in front of him gulping down a few hard breaths.
"I—I didn't come to get us adopted this time," she quavered.
"Eh?" said Captain Carew. He spoke dully, yet the faintest glimmerings of light were beginning to break on him. Her attitude, something familiar in her voice, her height and shining curly head brought that evening to his mind, when she had owned to an intention of wishing to frighten him. A slow anger stirred him, anger against this child, her parents, and himself.
"Your name!" he said harshly.
And at the sound of his own voice his anger grew. His lip thrust itself out when he had spoken, and his whole face wore its hardest, most unlovely look.
"Your name, girl?"