His dreamy, affectionate tone did not impose on the sharp-eyed young lady opposite. This man was playing a lazy, sentimental part, and, father or no father, she would not encourage him. She did not like those down-drooping eyes. That was the way she looked herself when she wished to deceive some one.
“You seem to have plenty of spirit,” he said, admiringly.
“You must have spirit in New York,” she said, emphatically; “otherwise you get imposed on.”
The man’s admiration increased. She was fooling him—this saucy young daughter of his; but he liked to be fooled by her, and with an ingratiating air he drew a handful of official-looking documents from his pocket.
“I would like to have you look over these. Then you will be convinced of your relationship to me.”
To hide her angry tears, Nina mechanically stretched out her hand, and without understanding a line ran them over. Just a few words from a certificate of birth shone through the glancing mirrors in her eyes, “Bertha Anne Stenner.”
“That is not my name,” she uttered, in a choked voice.
“What name did Fordyce give you?” asked the man, curiously.
She threw up her head. “Jane Mary Jenkins.”
“It was Jones just now,” he remarked, with quiet amusement.