“Does she?” replied the doctor.
“I’m sorry to hear,” remarked Mr. Ellet, fidgeting in his chair, “that there is nothing left for the support of the family.”
“So am I,” said the doctor.
“I suppose the world will talk about us, if nothing is done for her,” said the non-committal Mr. Ellet.
“Very likely,” replied the doctor.
“Harry was your child,” said Mr. Ellet, suggestively.
“Ruth is yours,” said the doctor.
“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Ellet; “but you are better off than I am, doctor.”
“I deny it—I deny it,” retorted the doctor, fairly roused; “you own the house you live in, and have a handsome income, or ought to have,” said he, sneeringly, “at the rate you live. If you have brought up your daughter in extravagance, so much the worse for her; you and Ruth must settle that between you. I wash my hands of her. I have no objection to take Harry’s children, and try to bring them up in a sensible manner; but, in that case, I’ll have none of the mother’s interference. Then her hands will be free to earn her own living, and she’s none too good for it, either. I don’t believe in your doll-baby women; she’s proud, you are all proud, all your family—that tells the whole story.”