"Indeed I would, Pauline. Indeed, indeed I would."
"This is too droll! For here am I, pining to get away and be free of this place for ever! But that's because I belong here."
"Yes, and because you have no children to think about. If you had—you'd understand. While Schenk's alive he may find me any day in New York, but I don't believe he'd ever think of looking for me here. My mother'd know how to send the children along, I guess, and they'd always have enough to eat and drink, and fresh air and a place to play in, and I'm sure Mr. Poussette would be kind to them. You know he's a funny-talking man, but he's got a real good heart, and Maisie and Jack might have a good time here."
"Yes, I know, but——" Miss Clairville's aristocratic and sophisticated side was dubious.
"But what? It's all very well for you, just making a fresh start, getting married and going to Europe and wanting to see a little more of the world than the Champlain House and St. Ignace, but I've had enough of the world—too much! I want to bring up my children honest, honest and respectable, and I can't do it, Pauline, in one room on Sixth Ave. Maisie, now, wants to be out in the streets every evening; she'd rather—than stay with me at the theatre even."
"How old is Maisie?" asked Miss Clairville suddenly.
"Why, she's most eleven years of age, I reckon. Let's see! I met Stanbury in—seventy-seven; Maisie—yes, she's just eleven, and Jack's nine and half. Say—wasn't it a good thing that I didn't have any family to Schenk?"
"How can you be so very vulgar!" said Miss Clairville with a curling lip. "But I suppose it was a good thing—the Will of God—according to Father Rielle. Eleven! And Angeel's nine. Nearly ten."
"Angeel? Who's she? You don't mean to tell me that you——"
"What do you mean?" said Miss Clairville fiercely. "What right have you to imagine such things? I'll tell you some day about Angeel, but just now I prefer to discuss something pleasant. We will resume our packing, my dear. Here is this blanket coat. What am I to do with it?"