“There!” said Miss Wren, covering her eyes with her hand. “I can’t bear to look at you. Go upstairs and get me my bonnet and shawl. Make yourself useful in some way, bad boy, and let me have your room instead of your company, for one half minute.”
Obeying her, he shambled out, and Eugene Wrayburn saw the tears exude from between the little creature’s fingers as she kept her hand before her eyes. He was sorry, but his sympathy did not move his carelessness to do anything but feel sorry.
“I’m going to the Italian Opera to try on,” said Miss Wren, taking away her hand after a little while, and laughing satirically to hide that she had been crying; “I must see your back before I go, Mr. Wrayburn. Let me first tell you, once for all, that it’s of no use your paying visits to me. You wouldn’t get what you want, of me, no, not if you brought pincers with you to tear it out.”
“Are you so obstinate on the subject of a doll’s dress for my godchild?”
“Ah!” returned Miss Wren with a hitch of her chin, “I am so obstinate. And of course it’s on the subject of a doll’s dress—or ad dress—whichever you like. Get along and give it up!”
Her degraded charge had come back, and was standing behind her with the bonnet and shawl.
“Give ’em to me and get back into your corner, you naughty old thing!” said Miss Wren, as she turned and espied him. “No, no, I won’t have your help. Go into your corner, this minute!”
The miserable man, feebly rubbing the back of his faltering hands downward from the wrists, shuffled on to his post of disgrace; but not without a curious glance at Eugene in passing him, accompanied with