"You had better go up to your room," said Mrs. Rowles gently.
The girl flung herself away, slamming the door after her.
"A troublesome child," said Mr. Burnet.
"Yes, sir. Poor thing! there are excuses to be made for her. Of late years her father has been a good deal out of work and in bad health; and then living in a close-packed part of London is trying to the temper. And she's a baby beginning to feel her feet, and beginning to feel herself getting on towards a woman. I am very sorry for her, poor child, but I don't know about keeping her with us. You don't want your whole comfort upset."
"And your boat too," said Rowles; "and your scull broken and lost. It's a-clearing up, I do believe," he added, going out to the front of the house, for he never stayed indoors when he could be out. Roberts followed him.
"Where does the child come from?" Mr. Burnet asked of Mrs. Rowles.
She named the street, and added, "Her father is a printer, and that is one thing that makes my husband so set against her."
"Why so?" inquired the gentleman.
"Because he thinks it unhealthy and wicked-like to work by night and sleep by day, as you must when you are on a morning paper like poor Thomas. You see, sir, Rowles has been lock-keeper these seventeen years with eighteen shillings a-week and a house, and his hours from six in the morning to ten at night; so he always gets his money regular and his sleep regular, and he can't see why other men can't do the same."
"We cannot be all of one trade," remarked Mr. Burnet. "And I hope he does not hold that bad opinion of all in the printing business, because I am a printer myself."