“Gone!” said Dally, to herself.
“Now, you go to doctor and say your gran’fa wants him. Tell him I say it’s all nonsense for him to be ill, and he must come.”
“Yes, gran’fa.”
“And you wait, Dally. I arn’t an old man yet, but I shall be sure to die some day, and then there’ll be a bit o’ money for you.”
“I don’t want your money, gran’fa,” she said sourly, as the old man grinned and rubbed his hands.
“That’s right. Good gel. Be independent,” he said. “Now go and tell doctor he must come.”
Dally did not stir, but stood gazing straight before her thoughtfully.
“How much does it cost to go to London, gran’fa?” she said, at last, as the old man beat upon the arm of his chair to take her attention.
“Heaps o’ money—heaps o’ money. What do you want to know for?”
“Because I’m going there.”