Presently the boy opened his eyes.
“Wot, are you there yet?” he asked.
“Oh yes. Did you think I was going away?” she replied, with a look of innocent surprise. “I won’t leave you now. I’ll stay here and nurse you, if papa will let me. I have slept once on a shake-down, when I was forced by a storm to stay all night at a juv’nile party. So if you’ve a corner here, it will do nicely—”
“My dear child,” interrupted her amazed father, “you are talking nonsense. And—do keep a little further from the bed. There may be—you know—infection—”
“Oh! you needn’t fear infection here, sir,” said Mrs Frog, somewhat sharply. “We are poor enough, God knows, though I have seen better times, but we keep ourselves pretty clean, though we can’t afford to spend much on soap when food is so dear, and money so scarce—so very scarce!”
“Forgive me, my good woman,” said Sir Richard, hastily, “I did not mean to offend, but circumstances would seem to favour the idea—of—of—”
And here Wealth—although a bank director and chairman of several boards, and capable of making a neat, if weakly, speech on economic laws and the currency when occasion required—was dumb before Poverty. Indeed, though he had often theorised about that stricken creature, he had never before fairly hunted her down, run her into her den, and fairly looked her in the face.
“The fact is, Mrs Frog,” said Giles Scott, coming to the rescue, “Sir Richard is anxious to know something about your affairs—your family, you know, and your means of—by the way, where is baby?” he said looking round the room.
“She’s gone lost,” said Mrs Frog.
“Lost?” repeated Giles, with a significant look.