“I like the Ingiliz. I have their blood through my father! He is Kaimakam of the Bashi of the Brigade of Adrianople, and comes of a noble family of London. He is of the Jones.”
“Beg pardon!” stuttered Morty, thinking that he had not heard clearly, “but would you mind saying that again?”
Golden Cloak repeated, folding her slender arms proudly upon her round young bosom:
“He is a Jones of London, my father. That is a name of honor in your country—yes?”
“Gaw!” said Morty, forcing enthusiasm, “I should rather think it was!”
The diamond aigrette of her cap sparkled in the hot sunshine as she bent her golden head royally. A smile played about her little lips, scarlet as pomegranate-buds.
“There are many of my father’s name in London?”
Morty said truthfully:
“Bless you! there are thousands of ’em in the Post-Office Directory!”
“Some day I will go,” she said, “to Ingiland, and make acquaintance of my relatives. For now, I am with my father.... He has no one but me.... I could not bear to leave him.... I have been with him always, since my beautiful mother died.” She added, and the tiny nostrils quivered: