Mr. Lott's heavy footfall crossed the floor. He planted himself before her, his hands resting on his stick.
'What's the matter, Jane? Where's Bowles?'
'He left town yesterday. He'll be back to-morrow, I think.'
'You've had the brokers in the house—isn't that it, eh?'
Mrs. Bowles made no answer, but her head sank again, and a trembling of her shoulders betrayed the emotion with which she strove. Knowing that Jane would tell of her misfortunes only when and how she chose, the father turned away and stood for a minute or two at the window; then he asked abruptly whether there was not such a thing as a chair in the house. Mrs. Bowles, who had been on the point of speaking, bade him come to another room. It was the dining-room, but all the appropriate furniture had vanished: a couple of bedroom chairs and a deal table served for present necessities. Here, when they had both sat down, Mrs. Bowles found courage to break the silence.
'Arthur doesn't know of it. He went away yesterday morning, and the men came in the afternoon. He had a promise—a distinct promise—that this shouldn't be done before the end of the month. By then he hoped to have money.'
'Who's the creditor?' inquired Mr. Lott, with a searching look at her face.
Mrs. Bowles was mute, her eyes cast down.
'Is it Charles Daffy?'
Still his daughter kept silence.