“Oh!” cried Sloppy, in a burst of admiration. “What a lot, and what a colour!”
Miss Wren, with her usual expressive hitch, went on with her work. But, left her hair as it was; not displeased by the effect it had made.
“You don’t live here alone; do you, Miss?” asked Sloppy.
“No,” said Miss Wren, with a chop. “Live here with my fairy godmother.”
“With;” Mr. Sloppy couldn’t make it out; “with who did you say, Miss?”
“Well!” replied Miss Wren, more seriously. “With my second father. Or with my first, for that matter.” And she shook her head, and drew a sigh. “If you had known a poor child I used to have here,” she added, “you’d have understood me. But you didn’t, and you can’t. All the better!”
“You must have been taught a long time,” said Sloppy, glancing at the array of dolls in hand, “before you came to work so neatly, Miss, and with such a pretty taste.”
“Never was taught a stitch, young man!” returned the dressmaker, tossing her head. “Just gobbled and gobbled, till I found out how to do it. Badly enough at first, but better now.”
“And here have I,” said Sloppy, in something of a self-reproachful tone, “been a learning and a learning, and here has Mr. Boffin been a paying and a paying, ever so long!”
“I have heard what your trade is,” observed Miss Wren; “it’s cabinetmaking.”