At this moment the other feeling
surged and burned.
"They are beautiful legs," remarked a laughing young man jocularly,
"but perhaps she does not particularly want us to look at them.
Wait until she begins skirt dancing." And everybody laughed at once
and the child stood rigid--the object of their light ridicule--not
herself knowing that her whole little being was cursing them aloud.
Coombe stepped to the little table and bestowed a casual glance
on the pencil marks.
"What is she doing?" he asked as casually of Dowson.
"She is learning to make pothooks, my lord," Dowson answered.
"She's a child that wants to be learning things. I've taught her
her letters and to spell little words. She's quick--and old enough,
your lordship."
"Learning to read and write!" exclaimed Feather.
"Presumption, I call it. I don't know how to read and write--least
I don't know how to spell. Do you know how to spell, Collie?" to
the young man, whose name was Colin. "Do you, Genevieve? Do you,
Artie?"
"You can't betray me into vulgar boasting," said Collie. "Who does
in these days? Nobody but clerks at Peter Robinson's."
"Lord Coombe does--but that's his tiresome superior way," said
Feather.
"He's nearly forty years older than most of you. That is the
reason," Coombe commented. "Don't deplore your youth and innocence."
They swept through the rooms and examined everything in them.
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