Gentleman heard me, and curled his lip.
''Perfect,'' he said; ''—if we were about to put you on the stage.''
''I know real girls named Valentine!'' I said.
''That''s true,'' said Dainty. ''Floy Valentine, and her two sisters. Lord, I hates those girls, though. You don''t want to be named for them, Sue.''
I bit my finger. ''Maybe not.''
''Certainly not,'' said Gentleman. A fanciful name might ruin us. This is a life-and-death business. We need a name that will hide you, not bring you to everyone''s notice. We need a name''—he thought it over—''an untraceable name, yet one we shall remember . . . Brown? To match your dress? Or—yes, why not? Let''s make it, Smith. Susan Smith.'' He smiled. ''You are to be a sort of smith, after all. This sort, I mean.''
He let his hand drop, and turned it, and crooked his middle
finger; and the sign, and the word he meant—fingersmith—being Borough code for thief, we laughed again.
At last he coughed, and wiped his eyes. ''Dear me, what fun,'' he said. ''Now, where had we got to? Ah, yes. Tell me again. What is your name?''
I said it, with the sir after.
''Very good. And what is your home?''
''My home is at London, sir,'' I said. ''My mother being dead, I live with my old aunty; which is the lady what used to be your nurse when you was a boy, sir.''
He nodded. ''Very good as to detail. Not so good, however, as to style. Come now: I know Mrs Sucksby raised you better than that. You''re not selling violets. Say it again.''