He remained with her half an hour, talking in a somewhat absent manner of French literature and of German music.
“What’ll you give me, mammy?” said Boo when he had taken his leave, as she dropped down at her mother’s feet.
“Give you? What do you mean?” said Mouse, who was irritated that he had not invited her to his château.
“What’ll you give me, mammy?” repeated Boo; and her upraised saucy imperious eyes said plainly, “Reward me for bringing the person you wanted or I shall tell him you’ve sent his Cupid—my Cupid—as a wedding-present to Daisy Ffiennes.”
“I will give you a kiss first,” said Mouse with apparent ignorance of the meaning of the upraised eyes, “and then I will give you a drive. Run away.”
To Boo the recompense seemed small besides the greatness of the service rendered. But her short years of life had been long enough to convince her that people were not grateful.
“Man’s made of millions,” she said dreamily when she was seated by her mother’s side in the victoria and Vanderlin, driving a pair of horses on his homeward way, passed them.
“I believe he is,” said her mother. “But his millions are nothing to us.”
Boo turned her head away that she might grin unrepressed, showing all her pretty teeth to an eucalyptus tree on the road.
Her mother did not like Vanderlin. His grave abstracted manner, his visible indifference to herself, his somewhat ceremonious words bored her, chilled her; she felt in his presence very much as she did when in church.