“Oh la! sir, is it?” said Mrs Marrot, quite earnestly.
“Yes, it is. Why, look here—this is your child?”
He laid his hand gently on Gertie’s head.
“Yes, sir, she is.”
“Well, my good woman, suppose that you are a widow and are killed,” (Mrs Marrot looked as if she would rather not suppose anything of the sort), “what I ask, what becomes of your child?—Left a beggar; an absolute beggar!”
He looked quite triumphantly at Mrs Tipps and her companions, and waited a few seconds as if to allow the idea to exert its full force on them.
“But, sir,” observed Mrs Marrot meekly, “supposin’ that there do be an accident,” (she shivered a little), “that ticket won’t prevent me bein’ killed, you know?”
“No, ma’am, no; but it will prevent your sweet daughter from being left a beggar—that is, on the supposition that you are a widow.”
“W’ich I ain’t sir, I’m happy to say,” remarked Mrs Marrot; “but, sir, supposin’ we was both of us killed—”
She paused abruptly as if she had committed a sin in merely giving utterance to the idea.