"Durban is, what he always was, a fool. I promised nothing to your mother--at all events, concerning you. Why should I? You are not my own flesh and blood."
"Anyone can tell that," said Beatrice disdainfully.
"No impertinence, miss. I have fed and clothed you, and educated you, and housed you----"
"You said that before."
"All at my own expense," went on the miser imperturbably, "and out of the kindness of my heart. This is the return you make, by giving me sauce! But you had better take care," he went on menacingly, and shaking a lean yellow finger, "I am not to be trifled with."
"Neither am I," retorted Beatrice, who felt in a fighting humour. "I am sorry to have been a burden to you, and for what you have done I thank you; but I am weary of stopping here. Give me a small sum of money and let me go."
"Money!" screeched the miser, touched on his tenderest point. "Money to waste?"
"Money to keep me in London until I can obtain a situation as a governess or as a companion. Come, father," she went on coaxingly, "you must be sick of seeing me about here. And I am so tired of this life!"
"It's the wickedness in your blood, Beatrice. Just like your mother--oh, dear me, how very like your mother!"
"Leave my mother's character alone!" said Beatrice impatiently, "she is dead and buried."