“If you like,” said Miss Mason shortly. “It’s nice of you not to laugh at my prejudices, Barnabas.”
“There are moments when I rather like them,” he assured her. And he vanished from the studio.
When he returned it was to find Miss Mason kneeling by a low chair on which the child was seated. The red silk was off the shoulders, and Miss Mason was sponging an ugly bruise on the child’s back. She turned her head as Barnabas entered.
“Look at this,” she said in a low, indignant voice.
“Who did it?” asked Barnabas.
“Some brute she calls Mrs. Higgins.” Miss Mason’s voice augured ill for that lady, had she been at hand.
“Mrs. ’iggins drunk,” said the child patiently. “She often drunk. Ver’ drunk last night.”
Miss Mason put some ointment on the bruise, and covered it with a piece of soft linen. Then she wrapped the red silk again round the child. She sat down in the big chair and drew the child to her.
“Now, little one,” she said, speaking in French, “tell us all about it.”
“Oh!” cried the child rapturously, “you speak French.” Her face had gone crimson with excitement.