Part 29 (1/2)
”There is another stairs besides the one we ascended,” says Mr. Kelly.
”I saw it when first I came: would _you_ like to see it too?”
”I should indeed,” says Monica, grateful for the hint, and, going with him, suddenly becomes aware of a staircase, leading goodness knows whither, upon the third step of which she seats herself, after a rapid glance around and upwards that tells her nothing, so mysterious are the workings of a barracks.
Mr. Kelly seats himself beside her.
”I suppose it is my mission to amuse you,” he says, calmly, ”as I dare not make love to you.”
”Why not?” says Monica, quite as calmly.
”For one thing, you would not listen to me; and for another, I don't want my head broken.”
Monica smiles, more because it is her duty to than for any other reason, because after the smile comes a sigh.
”I know few knights would tilt a lance for me,” she says; and Kelly, glancing at her, feels a quick desire rise within him to restore suns.h.i.+ne to her perfect face.
”One knight should be enough for any one, even the fairest ladye in the land,” he says.
”True; but what is to be for her who has none?” asks she, pathos in her eyes, but a smile upon her lips.
”She must be a very perverse maiden who has _that_ story to tell,”
returns he; and then, seeing she has turned her face away from him, he goes on quietly,--
”You know every one here, of course.”
”Indeed, no. The very names of most are unknown to me. Tell me about them, if you will.”
”About that girl over there, for instance?” pointing to a dingy-looking girl in the distance, whose face is as like a b.u.t.ton as it well can be, and whose general appearance may be expressed by the word ”unclean.”
”That is Miss Luker,” says Kelly. ”Filthy Lucre is, I believe, the name she usually goes by, on account of her obvious unpalatableness (my own word, you will notice), and her overwhelming affection for coin small and great.”
”She looks very untidy,” says Monica.
”She does, indeed. She is, too, an inveterate chatterbox. She might give any fellow odds and beat him; I don't believe myself there is so much as one comma in her composition.”
”Poor girl! What an exertion it must be to her!”
”Musn't it? Especially nowadays, when one _never_ goes for much, real hard work of any kind being such a bore. That's her mother beside her.
She is always beside her. Fat little woman, d'ye see?”
”Yes, a nice motherly-looking little woman she seems to be.”
”Horribly motherly! She has a birthday for every month in the year!”
”How?” says Monica, opening her eyes.
”I don't so much allude to her own natal day (which by this time I should say is obscure) as to her children's. They came to her at all seasons, from January to December. There are fourteen of them.”
”Oh, it _can't_ be possible! Poor, _poor_ soul!” says Monica, feeling quite depressed.