“I think I should grow faster if we were not so poor,” she said, innocently.
“You mean that you don’t get enough to eat?”
“Not always, m’sieu. But that is so with everybody except the wealthy.”
“Suppose we try her,” said Speed, after a silence. “You and I can scrape up a little money for her if worst comes to worst.”
“How about her father?”
“You can see him. What is he?”
“A poacher, I understand.”
“Oh, then it’s easy enough. Give him a few francs. He’ll take the child’s salary, anyway, if this thing turns out well.”
“Jacqueline,” I said, “we can’t afford to pay you much money, you know.”
“Money?” repeated the child, vacantly. “Money! If I had my arms full—so!—I would throw it into the world—so!”—she glanced at Speed—“reserving enough for a new skirt, monsieur, of which I stand in some necessity.”