“Do you?” said Beauchamp, carelessly. “Let’s hear some of your secrets, Floss.”
“I’ll tell you one if you won’t tell nobody,” said the child. She was evidently burning to communicate it, or she would not so quickly have forgiven her uncle’s insulting greeting.
“All right, I won’t tell nobody.”
“Listen, stoop down, Uncle Beachey. Low down; now listen and I’ll whisper,” said Floss. Then to his amazement—he had expected only some childish confidence or complaint—she whispered into his ear the words, “Aunty Woma’s going away.” Beauchamp started back. “Roma is going away,” he repeated. “Nonsense, Floss. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do, I do,” exclaimed the child, in her eagerness to prove herself right, throwing all reserve to the winds, “she said so to mamma. I heard her, and mamma said she was good, and I know she’s going.”
“How did you hear her? Where were you?” questioned Beauchamp.
“I was under the sofa—in there, in mamma’s room,” said Floss, pointing in the direction of the boudoir. “My ball went in, and I went in too, and mamma thought I came out again, but I didn’t. I hided under the sofa for nurse not to see me, and it was a long time—hours, I should think—before she finded me,” she continued triumphantly.
“But how did you hear your aunt was going away—did nurse tell you?” asked Captain Chancellor, somewhat mystified.
“No, in course not,” exclaimed Floss, contemptuously. “Nurse doesn’t know. Aunty Woma came into the room and spoke lots to mamma. She said she would make something for mamma, but mamma wouldn’t have it; and then she said she would go away, and mamma said she was good, but you would be angwy, and Aunty Woma said, ‘No; you wouldn’t expeck.’”
”‘Wouldn’t expect?’ What can the child mean? Wasn’t it suspect she said, Floss?” a brilliant light flashing upon him.