'My. De Fleuri, I believe in God with all my heart, and soul, and strength, and mind; though not in that poor creature's arguments. I don't know that your unbelief is not better than his faith.'
'I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Falconer. I haven't laughed so for years. What right has he to come pestering me?'
'None whatever. But you must forgive him, because he is well-meaning, and because his conceit has made a fool of him. They're not all like him. But how is your daughter?'
'Very poorly, sir. She's going after the rest. A Spitalfields weaver ought to be like the cats: they don't mind how many of their kittens are drowned.'
'I beg your pardon. They don't like it. Only they forget it sooner than we do.'
'Why do you say we, sir? You don't know anything of that sort.'
'The heart knows its own bitterness, De Fleuri—and finds it enough, I dare say.'
The weaver was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, there was a touch of tenderness in his respect.
'Will you go and see my poor Katey, sir?'
'Would she like to see me?'