"That name is something like mine," said Hopkins, "I call her Talking
Eyes.'"
Then Hopkins brought in his little three-year-old daughter, who
immediately climbed on my knee, captured my watch, and asked:
"What oo name?"
"John," said I.
"Don, Don," she repeated; "my name Maddie."
"That's Daddy's chum," put in Hopkins.
"Tum," repeated Maddie.
"Uncle Chummy," said Hopkins.
"Untle Tummie."
And I was "Untle Tummie" to little Madeline and "Chummy" to Hopkins and
his wife from then on.
Mrs. Hopkins wore her veil at home as well as abroad, but it was so
neatly arranged and worn so naturally that I soon became entirely used
to it, in fact, didn't notice it. Otherwise, she was a well-dressed,
handsomely set up woman, a splendid musician and a capital companion.
She sat at her work listening, while Hopkins and I "railroaded" and
argued about politics, and religion and everything else under the sun.
Mrs. Hopkins took sides freely; a glance at her eyes told where she
stood on any question.
Between "Scar Face" Hopkins and his handsome wife there appeared to be
perfect sympathy and confidence.
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