"O do you think so? It seems to me such nice light bread."
"Women never know good food from bad, my dear."
Dorothea thought silently of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and of her own struggles against daintiness.
"I declare they've not sent fresh butter. It's absolutely—impregnated with salt."
Dorothea could have laughed, if she had been less oppressed with the recent news. For some time past housekeeping arrangements had been slipping gradually out of the Colonel's hands into hers; and though every item had to be referred to the Colonel, Mrs. Stirring usually came to Dorothea, thankful to have her for a "go-between." So she was able to answer decisively—
"It is the very best fresh butter that can be got, father. Two shillings a pound! I suppose we shall not be able to afford that any longer. Ought we not to begin to make a difference at once?"
"I can't eat salt butter, my dear! Never could."
But if he could not afford fresh? That question presented itself strongly before Dorothea's mind.
Tea over, the Colonel collapsed into his arm-chair once more. Collapsed attitudes are commonly ungraceful fur anybody; and especially they are not graceful where the individual is rather stout and not tall. Despite his rust-red complexion, the Colonel was not a bad-looking man when he held himself upright, and walked energetically, but his outlines at this moment were not attractive.
Dorothea wondered whether she might venture to say anything more on the subject of his losses, and decided that she had better wait. If he were not disposed to talk, further pressure would only excite him.