"What sort of work was it?"
"He was an accountant in a small bank—a branch bank."
"Where? And what was the name of the bank?"
Pattie was silent.
"Where was it, I say?"
"I don't think I ought to tell you, Mrs. Cragg. Father wished me not to talk of those days to anybody. He told me so when first we came."
"What for?"
"We had trouble there. He had, I mean. He did not tell me all. He had done nothing wrong. It was not that. It was something he could not help. And when we came away, he said I was not to talk about our last home. So I would rather not, please."
"But if you live with us, child, we've a right to know. Why, dear me, what rubbish! How can I tell that you're a proper person to have in the house, if you won't say more, or a nice companion for Dot? I never heard such nonsense in my life! Of course you've got to tell whatever we want to know. Your father might have been—anything—" as Pattie's quiet eyes gave a slight flash. "There mustn't be any mysteries. I shall just speak to Mr. Cragg."
"I am afraid I cannot tell more," Pattie said gently. "I must do what my father wished—even now."