“Papa!” exclaimed Katharine. “Why—he always says he’s so poor! You don’t know how economical he is, and makes us be. I’m sure he can’t be rich.”
“Rich—h’m—that’s a relative expression nowadays. He’s not rich, compared with me—but he has enough, he has quite enough.”
“Oh—enough—yes,” answered the young girl. “The house is comfortable, and we have plenty to eat.” She laughed a little. “But as for clothes, you know—well, if my mother didn’t sell her miniatures, I don’t know exactly what she and I should do—nor what Charlotte would have done, before she was married.”
Robert Lauderdale looked at her intently for several seconds.
“Do you mean to say,” he asked, at length, “that when your dear mother sells her little paintings, it’s to get money for her and you to dress on?”
“Yes—of course. What did you think?”
“I thought it was for her small charities,” he answered, bending his rough brows with an expression of mingled pain and anger. “It seemed to me a good thing that she should have that interest. If I’d known that your father kept you all so close—”
“But I really think he’s poor, uncle Robert.”
“Poor! Nonsense! He’s got a million, anyway. I know it. Don’t look at me like that—as though you didn’t believe me. I tell you, I know it. I don’t know how much more he has, but he’s got that.”
He moved restlessly on his side, with more energy than he had yet shown, for he was growing angry.