“You can talk before Trimmer. You ought to know that by this time. Trimmer and I are one.”
“If madam wishes, I will withdraw,” murmured Trimmer, retiring to the door.
“No—no—don’t leave me—not alone with her—not alone!” cried the old man, reaching out his hand as if in terror. But Trimmer had opened the door. He gave his master one sharp look of reproof, and closed the door—almost.
Father and daughter sat looking at each other for a full minute. The old man dragged down the tassel of his skull-cap with his bony fingers, and commenced chewing the end. The glittering eyes danced with evil amusement, and, as he sat there huddled, he resembled nothing so much as an ape.
“I am glad to find you in a good temper, father.”
“Good temper—eh!” He laughed, and again 183 the bones seemed to rattle in his throat. The fit ended with coughing and whining and abuse of the draughts and the cold.
“Why don’t you have a fire in the room, father? You’d be so much more comfortable.”
“Fire! We don’t throw away money here—nor steal it.”
“Father, I beg that you will not refer to Dick in this interview by offensive terms; I can’t stand it. My boy is dead.”
“Who was referring to Dick?”