Page:The White Peacock, Lawrence, 1911.djvu/214

206 wouldna gie ’t ’im,”—she clutched in her fat little hand a piece of red chalk. “My Dad gen it me, ter mark my dolly’s face red, what’s on’y wood—I’ll show yer.”

She wriggled down, and holding up her trailing gown with one hand, trotted to a corner piled with a child’s rubbish, and hauled out a hideous carven caricature of a woman, and brought it to Leslie. The face of the object was streaked with red.

“&thinsp;’Ere sh’ is, my dolly, what my Dad make me—’er name’s Lady Mima.”

“Is it?” said Lettie, “and are these her cheeks? She’s not pretty, is she?”

“Um—sh’ is. My Dad says sh’ is—like a lady.”

“And he gave you her rouge, did he?”

“Rouge!” she nodded.

“And you wouldn’t let Sam have it?”

“No—an’ mi movver says, “Dun gie ’t ’im ’—’n ’e bite me.”

“What will your father say?”

“Me Dad?”

“&thinsp;’E’d nobbut laugh,” put in the mother, “an’ say as a bite’s bett’r’n a kiss.”

“Brute!” said Leslie feelingly.

“No, but ’e never laid a finger on ’em—nor me neither. But ’e ’s not like another man—niver tells yer nowt. He’s more a stranger to me this day than ’e wor th’ day I first set eyes on ’im.”

“Where was that?” asked Lettie.

“When I wor a lass at th’ ’All—an’ ’im a new man come—fair a gentleman, an’ a, an’ a! An even now can read an’ talk like a gentleman—but ’e tells me nothing—Oh no—what am I in ’is eyes but a