In the middle of that same afternoon, Bridget and Virtue Ann were sitting in the latter’s kitchen, talking volubly.
“And sure that’s a boss place,” Bridget was saying. “You’d do well to jump at the chance, Virtue Ann. Four girls kept, and you only to do part of the up-stairs work; and it’s lucky you are.”
“But the child,” said Virtue Ann uneasily.
“Troth, and it’s a pity about him,” said Bridget; “but to look out for number one is the game to-day. You can’t tie to your apron-strings a child that hasn’t a ghost of a claim on you.”
“No, I can’t,” said Virtue Ann; “I know I’m standing in my own light, yet there’s something witchy about the little fellow. I wake up in the night and think about him, and vow I’ll never leave him.”
“And in the morning it’s forgetting ye are,” said Bridget with a light laugh. “Faith, I’d shake him off in the winking of an eye. It’s the city that’ll look after him, since his grandfather was an infidel, and they haven’t a claim on the holy church. Och! murder, me boy! Virtue Ann!” and Bridget wound up her remarks with a squeal of dismay; for Eugene stood in the doorway, his black, piercing eyes fixed severely on her face.
He did not speak to her, but turned to his nurse. “Virtue Ann,” he asked in a sad, penetrating voice, “is it true that you wish to leave me?”
“Master Eugene,” stammered the girl, “I thought you were on the sofa asleep, being tired from your walk in the park this morning; I’m sure I never dreamed—if I’d thought you were awake I’d have shut the door.”
“Have you a situation offered to you?” asked Eugene coldly.