"Yes, thank you, quite well."
"I am sorry to see you in such trouble." There is a callousness about the way in which these words are uttered that jars upon Molly. She remembers on the instant all his narrow spleen toward the one now gone.
"I am,—in sore trouble," she answers, coldly.
A pause. Mr. Amherst, although apparently full of purpose, clearly finds some difficulty about proceeding. Molly is waiting in impatient silence.
"You wished to speak to me, grandpapa?" she says, at length.
"Yes,—yes. Only three days ago I heard you had been left—badly provided for. Is this so?"
"It is."
"And that"—speaking slowly—"you had made up your mind to earn your own living. Have I still heard correctly?"
"Quite correctly. Mr. Buscarlet would be sure to give you a true version of the case."
"The news has upset me." For the first time he turns his head and regards her with a steady gaze. "I particularly object to your doing anything of the kind. It would be a disgrace, a blot upon our name forever. None of our family has ever been forced to work for daily bread. And I would have you remember you are an Amherst."