"It's rather hard, and I should like to know all about it," she told herself. "But perhaps that is just why I can't yet,—because I'm so inclined to be impatient."
Then she brought out her work, and sat stitching away quietly, near the one candle; her head a little bent, and the light falling on her pale face, with its neat glasses. Nobody, looking at her, would have counted Dorothea an impatient person; but doubtless she knew herself best. We do not often accuse ourselves of faults which are not ours, however apt to be blind to faults which are ours.
Not another word was uttered that evening on the subject of the Colonel's impending bankruptcy. He sat moodily and gloomily apart, nursing his woes. Dorothea worked and thought. She made up her mind on one point,—that economy should begin immediately.
Next morning, the Colonel disappeared after breakfast, telling Dorothea that for once she could not have her walk. Business required him in the City, he said. Dorothea acquiesced; and finding dinner left entirely in her hands, she made a very simple affair of it. Mrs. Stirring stared and protested, but Dorothea was firm.
"Not no fish nor soup neither?"
"No, not to-day."
"And only cold mutton, Miss?" Mrs. Stirring gasped.
"I think there is plenty of mutton over,—and it goes farther cold than minced. Yes, that will do perfectly well. You can make us a small bread-and-butter pudding."
"And a tart. Just, an apple-tart, Miss,—and some boiled custard."
"No, not a tart. Nothing except the bread-and-butter pudding."