“Yes,” he said; “but I am not hungry.”
“Some mornin’s I eat nuffin too,” she said, in a relieved way; “more partickler when I have a glass of milk in de night. Woland,” tenderly patting the hand around her waist, “did you have a dwink in de night?”
Robertson’s face became scarlet. She viewed him with the utmost solicitude. Then turning to a lady next her, who had finished her breakfast, and was indolently fanning herself, “Dive me dat fan, de poor darlin’ is hot.”
Both on that occasion and many subsequent ones, Daisy amused us by the epithets she bestowed upon her favorite. We found that she had not been an inattentive observer of the many newly married couples that had sojourned at Mrs. Drummond’s.
Robertson was fanned for several minutes—Daisy striking his face, with an extra now and then for his nose, in her awkward zeal, until I wondered at his patience. Suddenly, he pushed back his chair, said he had finished his breakfast and that she had better get down. This gave rise to a stroke of childish policy. She ordered the table-maid to bring her hitherto neglected plate of porridge, and putting the spoon in Robertson’s hand insisted upon his feeding her. He complied with a pretty good grace. Daisy kept up an unbroken scrutiny of his face, and presently dodging a spoonful of milk, laid a pink forefinger on his upper lip. There was just the faintest suspicion of a moustache there. “I fordet what you call dis,” she said, “moss—moss——”
“Moustache,” he replied, abruptly bringing the porridge feeding performance to a close, and putting her on her tiny feet. She ran out of the room after him, pulling the napkin from her neck as she went. When I reached the hall, Robertson was taking down his hat from the rack, Daisy in close attendance. She was just prefacing a remark with, “Woland, love,” when Mrs. Drummond came out of the dining room.—“Daisy,” she said, peevishly, “you must say Mr. Robertson.”
“How berry cross you are dis mornin’,” said the child, throwing a glance at her over her shoulder; then turning to Robertson, she went on to ask him whether he would soon come back, to see her.
“No,” he replied, his hand on the door, “I lunch in town; you won’t see me till evening.” The child’s face fell, and she turned silently away.
I went out quickly, and overtook him before he reached the corner of the street. “That child seems to have taken quite a fancy to you,” I said quietly; “I never before knew her to show so much interest in any one.”
“I don’t know why she does,” he answered awkwardly, and with some impatience, “unless it is owing to my having spoken to her the other day. When I went to engage my room, she was sitting in a corner alone, and I gave her a picture I happened to have in my pocket.” He stopped suddenly. He did not tell me then, nor did I find out until long afterward, that the little, lonely child had reminded him of a dead sister of his, and that when he gave her the picture, he gave her a kiss with it.