"About," said Leam, who thought neither supreme.
"Prettier than you?"
"I don't know: how can I tell?" she answered a little impatiently.
The mother's blood that ran in her, the mother's mould in which she had been formed, forbade her to put herself below madame in anything; but, as she was neither vain nor conscious, she found Fina's question difficult to answer.
"Oh," cried Fina, in a tone of disappointment, "then she could not have been very pretty."
"I dare say she was, but I do not know," returned Leam.
"And she died?" continued Fina, yawning in a childishly indifferent manner.
"Yes, she died."
"Why? Who killed her? Did papa?" asked Fina.
Leam's face was very white: "No, not papa."