And then there came a change over Tiny. She became silent all at once, though without shrinking from the dark face up to which she was lifted. She did not twist in his grasp as children do, or struggle to be put down. She became quite still, drew a long breath, and fixed her eyes upon him, her little lips apart, her face intent. It was only the effect of a shyness which from time to time crept over Tiny, who was not usually shy; but it impressed the man very much who held her, himself quite silent for a moment, which seemed long to both, though it was scarcely appreciable in time, until Lucy reached the group, and with a cry of “Oh, Tiny, you naughty little girl!” restored man and child to the commonplace. Then the little girl wriggled down out of the stranger’s grasp, and stole her hand into the more familiar one of Lucy. She kept her eyes, however, fixed upon her first captor.
“Oh, Tiny,” cried Lucy, “what will the gentleman think of you—such a bold little girl—to run away from mamma, and get your death of cold, and give that kind gentleman the trouble of catching you. Oh, Tiny, Tiny!”
“Me go back to mummie now,” Tiny said, turning her back upon them. It was unusual for this little thing, whom everybody petted, to be so subdued.
“You have both beards,” cried Lucy, calling over her shoulder to her brother and his friend, as she led the child back. “She is frightened of you; but they are not bad gemplemans, Tiny, they are nice gemplemans. Oh, nurse, here she is, safe and sound.”
“Me not frightened,” Tiny said, and she turned round in the grip of the nurse, who had now seized upon her, and kissed her little hand. “Dood-night, gemplemans,” Tiny cried. The little voice came shrill and clear through the night air, tinkling in the smallness of the sound, yet gracious as a princess; and the small incident was over. It was nothing at all; the simplest little incident in the world. And then Lucy took up her little strain, breathless with her rush, laughing and explaining.
“Tiny dearly loves a little escapade; she is the liveliest little thing! She has no other children to play with, and she is not afraid of anybody. She is always with her mother, you know, and hears us talk of everything.”
“Very bad training for a child,” said Ralph, “to hear all your scandal and gossip over your tea.”
“Oh, Ralph, how common, how old fashioned you are!” cried Lucy, indignantly. “Do you think Mrs. Nugent talks scandal over her tea? or I—? I have been trying to make her promise to come up to lunch to-morrow, and then you shall see—that is, if she comes; for she was not at all sure whether she would come. She is not fond of strangers. She never will come to us when we have people—that is, not chance people—unless she knows them beforehand. Oh, you, of course, my brother, that’s a different thing. I am sure I beg your pardon, Mr. Bertram, for making you wait, and for seeming to imply—and then Tiny rushing at you in that way.”
“Tiny made a very sweet little episode in our walk,” said Bertram. “Please don’t apologize. I am fond of children, and the little thing gave me a look; children are strange creatures, they’re only half of this world, I think. She looked—as if somehow she and I had met before.”
“Have you, Mr. Bertram? did you perhaps know—her mother?” cried Lucy, in great surprise.