“I am very sorry, Mr Piper.”
“Yes,” he said, turning his pencil upside down, and trying whether it would go in the reverse way; “but, you see, that don’t help a busy man. I give up one morning like this every year to the school accounts, and dress myself”—he glanced at the sleeve of his black coat—“and come down, and if the money isn’t ready, you see, it throws me out.”
“Yes, I understand, Mr Piper,” faltered Hazel; “and I am very sorry.”
“Yes,” he continued, trying to coax the pencil down by giving it a revolving movement, which succeeded better, though not well, for the leather of the pencil-sheath was getting worn with use, and it went into so many folds that Mr Piper had to withdraw the pencil and try it in the proper way—“Yes, it is a nuisance to a busy man,” he continued. “I don’t know why I go on doing this parish work, for it never pleases nobody, and takes up a deal of a man’s time. I wouldn’t do it, only Mr Lambent as good as begs of me not to give it up. P’r’aps you’ll give me what you have in hand, miss.”
“Give you what I have in hand?” said Hazel.
“Yes! Part on account you know, and send me the rest.”
“I cannot, Mr Piper. I am not prepared,” said Hazel, who felt ready to sink with shame, and the degradation of being importuned at such a time.
“Can’t you give me any of it on account—some of your own money, you know, miss!”
“I really cannot sir; but I will endeavour to pay it over as soon as possible.”
“Within a week?”