In silent ecstasy, Stargarde gazed at him. Then she tapped the paper in her hands. “What about this hat, Brian? Did you let her wear it?”
“No; she threw it in the fire. I told her ladies wore fine hats; children plain ones. She first got into a rage and danced and used bad language, then hurled plumes and hat into the grate, and herself at my boots.”
“Could not Mrs. Trotley have prevented her from buying it?”
“The old lady is as wax in her hands. No one can manage her.”
“But you, Brian, you can.”
“Well, yes; I have to; she’d override everything.”
“Are you going to send her to school?”
“Not yet. I give her lessons, and Mrs. Trotley helps her to learn them. She’s the most indulgent bit of femininity that I could have found for Zilla.”
“And you are pleased, Brian, that you took the child?”
“Yes; she has given me an object in life. I couldn’t endure a stupid child. She is as smart as one of the saucy sparrows about our streets; she is a sparrow—and you are like one of those beautiful gulls circling in the pure air overhead,” he thought to himself, taking care not to utter the latter sentiment aloud; “and I am like one of those big, ugly crows yonder on the beach,” he reflected further, “hopping over his mates with eyes bent on the stones to see that he gets his share of the shell-fish. And by and by the white-winged gull will come down and sit quietly beside that old crow. And he will slay mollusks for himself and her too. I beg your pardon; what were you saying?”