"And only think! My father goes to Church with me now, at least once every Sunday. Isn't that a change? I could so seldom persuade him at first."
"One thing has disappointed me. For a time he was so much brighter and more chatty. He used to tell stories of his Army life, and he really seemed to like me to chat to him. But that is over now. He has been getting more and more silent through the autumn—even gloomy. Some days, he hardly speaks at all, and when he does, he speaks sharply. I feel almost sure that some trouble or worry is weighing on his mind; and I have an idea that it has to do with money."
"I don't think it can be wrong of me to say all this to you, because you have always been—"
Dorothea came to a pause, and sat, pen in hand, considering.
"Am I wrong?" she murmured. "Ought I to say so much? Mrs. Kirkpatrick is my oldest and dearest friend—but she is not my father's friend. He calls her 'an estimable old lady'—and that is all. Is it quite honourable of me to tell her about his affairs? He would not tell her himself. Have I the right, without his leave?"
She sat thoughtfully, gazing towards the lighted candle.
"Perhaps he is waiting till he is sure that I am trustworthy, and not a gossip, before he speaks out. After all, his affairs are not the concern of other people—not even of my dear Mrs. Kirkpatrick. If I were at a loss to know what to do, perhaps my right plan would be to go to Mr. Mordan for advice, but I don't see that advice would help me just now. I have no right to press for my father's secrets; and unless he speaks to me himself, I cannot do anything."
Another break. Dorothea ran her eyes through the letter.
"What a lot I have written about myself. It is I—I—I all through! How horrid! I don't think I will send it off to-day. Perhaps I will re-write part to-morrow. That is the worst of living so much alone. One gets into such a narrow circle of ideas, and self grows so important. To be sure Mrs. Kirkpatrick begs to be told everything, but still—No, I'll wait."
Dorothea put pen and paper away, and peeped through the venetian into the lamp-lit street.