"It is 'jolly,' as English people say, that you have not seen the town," said Miss Gastonguay, picking up the lines. "I love to get hold of new people. Don't you know a thing about it? Hasn't your husband told you?"
"Well, really, I have slept the most of the time since arriving. I was tired from my journey, and I have asked few questions."
"You don't want to be too communicative," said Miss Gastonguay, turning her sharp black eyes on her. "You are quite a woman of the world, baby though you seem. Well, I'll not bother you till after you have had a chance to ask some one if I am quite respectable and one to be encouraged, though it will be hard work for me to restrain myself, as I am little better than an interrogation point. You don't belong to New England?"
"No,—to New York more than any place, but I have no home. My mother died when I was a baby, and my father has had me travelling with him almost ever since, though sometimes he would put me in a school for awhile."
"You must miss him."
"I do," said Derrice, quietly.
"You won't like living here if you have been a globe-trotter."
"Perhaps I may."
"My child,—you know you can think of nothing more dismal."
"I will not say that, Miss Gastonguay."