"Had it not been," continued Mr. Manners, "for the kindness of a lady who, according to Mr. Parkinson, is universally beloved for her goodness of heart, the unhappy girl, driven to despair, would probably have committed suicide; but this lady--"
"Lady, sir?" interrupted Mark Inglefield, noting with curiosity a certain emphasis of tenderness which, unconsciously to himself, Mr. Manners put upon the word.
"I said a lady, although she is as poor as those among whom she lived."
"Ah," sneered Mark Inglefield, "a piece of working-man's clap-trap, introduced for the purpose of imposing upon your benevolence."
"I am not noted for benevolence," said Mr. Manners, dryly; "it would not have been to my discredit had I been more charitable in my career."
Mark Inglefield stared at his patron. This was a new phase in the rich man's character, and, with his altered demeanor, for which Inglefield could discover no explicable reason, boded changes. Still he did not lose his self-possession.
"Of every twenty who beg of you," he said, "nineteen are rank impostors."
"Possibly; but that does not affect our present business. The lady I refer to stepped in at a critical moment, nursed the poor girl and brought her to reason, and finally succeeded in reconciling her father with her, who received her again in his home."
"Ah!" thought Mark Inglefield, "Mary is at home, then. I shall know where to find her." Aloud he said, "Why do you pause, sir?"
"I supposed you were about to speak," replied Mr. Manners.