“And Wilson?”
“He went with papa. I don’t think papa could live without Wilson.”
“Oh, indeed. I begin to solve the problem of your ghastly little face. You have been housemaid, garde-malade, and bread-winner. Had you no money at all?” Hilda flushed—the quick flush of physical weakness.
“Yes, at first,” she replied; “papa gave me quite a lot before going, and that has paid part of the doctor’s bills, and my lessons brought in the usual amount.”
“Could you not have given up the lessons for the time being?”
“I know you think it dreadful in me to have left mamma for all those afternoons.” Her acceptation of a blame infinitely removed from his thoughts stupefied Odd. “And mamma has thought it heartless, most naturally. But Rosalie is trustworthy and kind. The doctor came three times a day and I can explain to you”—Hilda hesitated—“the money papa gave me went almost immediately—some unpaid bills.”
“What bills?” Odd spoke sternly.
“Why, we owe bills right and left!” said Hilda.
“But what bills were these?”
“There was the rent of the apartment for one thing; we should have had to go had that not been paid; and then, some tailors, a dressmaker; they threatened to seize the furniture.”