"Very sorry," put in Mr. Eyre. "Ah, Hetty, I wish you'd use your brains—you have brains, you know. Never mind, Celia, I will get the kettle bronzed again—when I can."
And he sighed; whereon Flo called out,—
"Papa, come here, please. Give me a kiss. Dear papa," with her little arms round his neck, "do not be sorry; I don't like to see you so."
Hetty, much subdued, went away with the tray and the luckless kettle. The foolish girl thought that her master's sigh was caused by the kettle's change of complexion, but poor Mr. Eyre had more serious cause for sighing than that.
He had been ill for three weeks, and it would be some time before he was fit to go to his work again. The doctor's bill was a large one, for some of the medicines had been expensive, and he had now to take beef-tea, nourishing food, and a little wine; and all this costs money. He had sent his wife to Mr. Cartwright, the managing partner, to find out if he would advance him a portion of his salary; but Mr. Cartwright refused, on the ground that it was not the rule of the house, and would be a bad precedent.
"I had some difficulty," he said, "in getting any one to fill Eyre's place, and of course the salary goes to the man who is doing the work. The sooner Eyre gets back to his desk the better for all parties," remarked fat, prosperous Mr. Cartwright, playing with his watch-chain, and smiling in a superior manner at the poor, anxious little woman.
"But, sir, we are—"
"Short of money, eh? Ah, yes; I told Eyre how it would be when he married—absurd, you know, to marry so young. If he don't like our rules, I daresay the gentleman who fills his place would be very glad to remain permanently."
"My husband will return to his work as soon as he possibly can," said Mrs. Eyre. "Good-evening, sir."
It was plain that to urge her request might prove worse than useless. She softened the story as much as possible when telling her husband; but it was not a cheering story at the best.