“Well, Mary, if you'll kindly explain which of all the questions you have asked me during the last minute or two, I'll try my best.”
She frowned, made an impatient gesture, then laughed.
“Go upstairs and take off your things, Fan,” she said. “Well?” she continued, turning to her brother again, and finding his eyes fixed on her face. “Do you tell me, Mary, that this white girl was born and bred in a London slum, that her drunken mother was killed in a street fight, and that she had no other life but that until you picked her up?”
“Yes.”
“Good God!”
“Can't you say Mon Dieu, Tom? Your north-country expressions sound rather shocking to London ears.”
He rose, and coming to her side put his arm about her and kissed her cheek very heartily.
“You were always a good old girl, Mary,” he said, “and you are one still, in spite of your vagaries.”
“Thank you for your very equivocal compliments,” she returned, administering a slight box on his ear. “And now tell me what you think of Fan?”
“I'll tell you presently, if you have not guessed already; but I'd like to know first what you are going to do with her.”