them. That makes you more of an angel to want this job too." She playfully whacked her smaller companion.
"I'm not an angel—I'm an old grandmother," Sir Claude declared; "I like babies; I always did. If we go to smash I shall look for a place as a 'responsible nurse.'"
Maisie, in her charmed mood, drank in an imputation on her years which at another moment might have been bitter; but the charm was sensibly interrupted by Mrs. Beale's screwing her round and gazing fondly into her eyes. "You're willing to leave me, you wretch?"
The little girl deliberated; even her attachment to this bright presence had become as a cord she must suddenly snap. But she snapped it very gently. "Isn't it my turn for mamma?"
"You're a horrible little hypocrite! The less, I think, now said about 'turns' the better," Mrs. Beale made answer, "I know whose turn it is. You've not such a passion for your mother!"
"I say, I say: do look out!" Sir Claude quite amiably protested.
"There's nothing she hasn't heard. But it doesn't matter—it hasn't spoiled her. If
