“What’s up there?” she asked rudely, pointing straight up to the bow window that belonged to Father Derdon’s room. “Is that a room up there?”

Her mother turned and slapped her sharply in the face.

“She’s too forward altogether, ma’am,” she said, with an anxious smile. She gave the child a shake. “Tell the lady you’re sorry,” she demanded.

The child, whose face was blotched with the marks of her mother’s hand, grinned and waved her arms. She seemed to be daring her mother to give her another slap. Mrs. Derdon stepped back into the hall.

“It’s my son’s room up there,” she said. “I’ll let you see into it, but you have to come down to the kitchen first of all and let your mother have a cup of tea.”

The child refused milk and drank tea with the two women. When she had eaten everything on the table, she got up and began to wander around the kitchen.

“This is mine,” she said, touching the chair on which she had been sitting.

She touched the gas stove. “This is mine,” she said.

“She’s always acting around,” her mother said indifferently, keeping a tight grip on the handle of her teacup as it sat in the saucer. “I’m grateful for the tea, ma’am,” she added. Since sitting down at the table she had gone sleepy, basking in the warmth of the range.

“This is mine,” said the little girl, putting her hand up to the checked curtain at the window.

“Now,” said Mrs. Derdon, seeing that the tea was all finished, “would you like to see the room upstairs?”

“I want to see in there,” the child said pertly, as they ascended the three steps to the hall. She pointed at the sitting-room door and darted to open it.

“This is mine,” she shrieked. “This is mine, this is mine.”

She touched the sofa, and the two upholstered chairs, and the table of ferns, and the mantelpiece vases, and the china figures standing neatly spaced on the piano, where they were safe since it was never opened.

“This is mine,” she screeched, squatting on the carpet like a big bedraggled frog.

“A lovely place you have, ma’am,” the mother said.

“Now we’ll go upstairs and see what’s there,” said Mrs. Derdon, with an awkward, encouraging smile. The child slipped adroitly past her, dodging her hand, and streaked up the stairs as though she knew the house.

When they reached Father Derdon’s room, she was standing at the window with her face pressed to the glass and the white curtain bunched out of her way.

“There’s the gate we came in at,” she cried to her mother, beckoning excitedly. She tugged at her mother’s hand. “And there we are, Mam, coming up the street. Look at us out there.”