Dorothea could not help smiling. She bit her lip, and endeavoured to be grave. After all, it was no laughing matter. If the Colonel could have looked into some of the rooms where certain of her Sunday-scholars lived, and could have seen their scanty meals, even his fastidious palate would hardly have counted this day's meal "starvation." But she might not say so to him.
"I will do whatever you tell me—whatever is right—of course. But, father, don't you think that if I knew just a little more, it would save me from making mistakes. I don't want to bother you; but I am not a child now, and perhaps—Will you be very poor indeed? Must you leave London?"
The Colonel's "Yes" probably referred to the last question. Dorothea accepted it thus.
"And where shall we go?"
"I haven't an idea."
"Then things really are bad. It is not merely a little passing loss."
"If I can't get close upon a thousand pounds early in January, my dear—"
"Yes," she said.
The Colonel made a despairing movement with both hands. "Everything will go," he said.
"But I don't quite understand. I thought a Colonel's pension was so good. Mrs. Kirkpatrick once said—"