“No,” he said hastily, as his old look returned; “you are as bad as your poor, dear mother, every bit. No,” he cried, with an angry flush. “I won’t do that, though. Not a farthing of my money shall go towards paying for that man’s funeral.”
“Father, dear—”
“Papa.”
“Then papa, dear,” said Claude quietly, “I have paid everything connected with poor Woodham’s funeral.”
“You have?”
“Yes; you are very generous to me with money, and I had plenty to do that.”
“Yes; and stinted yourself in clothes. You don’t dress half well enough. Well, there, it’s done now, and we can’t alter it. I suppose these people will think it was my doing.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Of course. Well, as to this woman, keep her and nurse and pamper her, and pay her the largest wages you can; and mark my words, my pet, she’ll turn round and worry us for what we have done.”
“I have no fear, dear. I know Sarah Woodham too well, and I can do anything I like with her.”