“We have missed you—daddy and I.”
“My dear——”
Mrs. Brocklebank was interested. So was her companion.
“Who is that girl?”
Mrs. Lankhurst had a way of screwing up her eyes, and wrinkling her forehead.
“A Miss Carfax. She lives with her mother near here. Retired tradespeople, I imagine. The girl paints. She is doing work for Mr. Canterton—illustrating catalogues, I suppose.”
“The child seems very fond of her.”
“Children have a habit of making extraordinary friendships. It is the dustman, or an engine-driver, or something equally primitive.”
“I suppose one would call the girl pretty?”
“Too French!”