He tearfully protested that he never tasted any drink stronger than coffee before the sun set—and this came of breaking his principles.
The girl laughed sadly, and went to the window.
“Betty,” said Anthony at last—“can I do nothing for you?”
She shook her head:
“Nothing,” she said. “His will is gone.”
She was acquiring knowledge of the world early, this girl—and at first-hand.
The next morning, Major Modeyne read a letter at breakfast, and having read it, watching Betty furtively out of the corners of his eyes, he stealthily took advantage of her attention being fixed upon the tea-making to put the letter into his pocket.
It was a discomforting, abusive, cruel letter, and it said that he and his daughter received notice to vacate their rooms that day week—that there would be a cab waiting for them and their baggage as soon as it was dark, and that they must go, even if the law were employed to eject them.
It stated what it had to say harshly, vulgarly, blatantly. It was not the kind of letter that raises a man’s self-respect.
The week passed.