She blinked and yawned, as one who is awakened suddenly. "I think you spoke," said she.
"You are unhappy, Bella. You can't conceal it. Your laugh sounds like madness. You must be unhappy. So young, too! Only twenty-one!"
"What does it matter? Who cares for me?"
The mighty pity falling from his eyes took in her whole shape. She did not mistake it for tenderness, as another would have done.
"Who cares for you, Bella? I do. What makes my misery now, but to see you there, and know of no way of helping you? Father of mercy! it seems too much to have to stand by powerless while such ruin is going on!"
Her hand was shaken in his by the passion of torment with which his frame quaked.
Involuntarily a tear started between her eyelids. She glanced up at him quickly, then looked down, drew her hand from his, and smoothed it, eying it.
"Bella! you have a father alive!"
"A linen draper, dear. He wears a white neck-cloth."
This article of apparel instantaneously changed the tone of the conversation, for he, rising abruptly, nearly squashed the lady's lap-dog, whose squeaks and howls were piteous, and demanded the most fervent caresses of its mistress. It was: "Oh, my poor pet Mumpsy, and he didn't like a nasty great big ugly heavy foot on his poor soft silky—mum—mum—back, he didn't, and he soodn't that he—mum—mum—soodn't; and he cried out and knew the place to come to, and was oh so sorry for what had happened to him—mum—mum—mum—and now he was going to be made happy, his mistress make him happy—mum—mum—mum—moo-o-o-o."