“Silly puss!  I only mean she isn’t much more’n a kid, ’erself.”

“She’s twenty five, twenty whole years more than me.  Isn’t that old?”

“Lawkes, no.  I’m goin’ on seventeen myself.  I ’avent got any father, no more’n you ’ave, so I can feel fur you.  Your ma ‘as to do typewritin’.  Mine does charrin’.  It’s much the sime thing.”

“Is it?” asked Rosemary.  “Angel doesn’t like typewriting so very well.  It makes her shoulder ache, but it isn’t that she minds.  It’s not having enough work to do.”

“Bless your hinnercent ‘eart, charrin’ mikes you ache all over!  Betcherlife my ma’d chinge with yours if she could.”

“Would she?  But Angel doesn’t get on at all well here.  I’ve heard her telling a lady she lent some money to, and wanted to have it back, after awhile.  You see, when we were left poor, people said that she could make lots of money in Paris, because they pay a good deal there for the things Angel does; but others seemed to have got all the work for themselves, before we went over to Paris to live, so some friends she had told her it would be better to try here where there was no—­no com—­com—­”

“No compertishun,” suggested the would-be nursery governess.

“Yes, that’s the right word, I think.  But there was some, after all.  Poor Angel’s so sad.  She doesn’t quite know what we’ll do next, for we haven’t much money left.”

“She’s got a job of char—­I mean, typin’ to-day anyhow,” said Jane.

“Yes, she’s gone to a hotel, where a gentleman talks a story out loud, and she puts it down on paper.  She’s been three times; but it’s so sad; the story is a beautiful one, only she doesn’t think he’ll live to finish it.  He came here to get well, because there’s sunshine, and flowers; but his wife cried on Angel’s shoulder, in the next room to his, and said he would never, never get well any more.  Angel didn’t tell me, for I don’t think she likes me to know sad things; but I heard her saying it all to a lady she works for sometimes, a lady who knows the poor man.  I don’t remember his name, but he’s what they call a Genius.”

“It’s like that out here on the Riviera,” said Jane, shaking her head so gloomily that the ruffled cap wobbled.  “Lots of ill people come, as well as those who wants fun, and throwin’ thur money about.  In the midst of loife we are in death.  Drat the Biby, I believe ’e’s swallowed ’is tin soldier!  No, ‘ere it is, on the floor.  But, as I was sayin’, your ma and mine might be sisters, in some wyes.  Both of ’em lost their ’usbins, young—­”

“How did your father get lost?” Rosemary broke in, deeply interested.

“’E went to the dogs,” replied Jane, mysteriously.

“Oh!” breathed the child, thrilled with a vague horror.  She longed intensely to know what had happened to her friend’s parent after joining his lot with that of the dogs, but was too delicate-minded to continue her questioning, after such a tragic beginning.  She wondered if there were a kind of dreadful dog which made a specialty of eating fathers.  “And did he never come back again?” she ventured to enquire, at last.