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“Will you let me out just for an hour?” she asked at length, with a voice greatly subdued from the first clamorous outburst.

“Not for an hour.”

“But I have an aunt, and she is dead. I shouldn’t like strangers to take what once belonged to her.”

“Where is your uncle?”

“He is dead too.”

“Your people?”

“I have none.”

“Where then, in the name of all the devils in Lucifram, do you intend to go to?”

“I thought when people knew I had miraculously come by a tongue they would—”

“Ah! I thought as much. You want to behave with all the absurdity of a hen that has laid an egg.”

“Indeed!” said Rosalie, flushing.

“You want to get out just to cackle.”

She was silent.

“You admit it?”

“I admit nothing but your want of manners.”

“What a waspish, vinegarish tongue yours is.”

“It’s the fault of the doctor, then. If one cannot produce a sweet instrument one might as well admit oneself a failure.”

“How was I to tell? Your face was so deceptive.”

“Maybe so is my tongue. I was only speaking in fun. Let me out for one hour. Lend me twopence, and I will return, having spoken to no one, and in the right frame for being submissive.”