"Well, what have you come for to-day?" she asked him.
"Oh, just to pay you a visit."
"Me! I like that. As though I didn't know what you're after. . . . She's in there. She'll be out in a minute. I'm off on some business of my own for an hour or two so you can conoodle as much as you damned well please."
Henry said nothing to that.
"Why didn't you make an offer for her?" Mrs. Tenssen suddenly asked.
"An offer?" Henry repeated.
"Yes. I'm sick of her. Been sick of her these many years. All I want is to get a little bit as a sort of wedding present, in return, you know, for all I've done for her, bringing her up as I have and feeding her and clothing her. . . . You're in love with her. You've got rich people. Make an offer."
"You're a bad woman," Henry said, springing to his feet, "to sell your own daughter as though she were. . . ."
"Selling, be blowed," replied Mrs. Tenssen calmly, pursuing a recalcitrant crumb with her finger. "She's my daughter. I had the pain of bearing her, the trouble of suckling her, the expense of clothing her and keeping her respectable. She'd have been on the streets long ago if it hadn't been for me. I don't say I've always been all I should have been. I'm a sinful woman, and I'm glad of it—but you'll agree yourself she's a pure girl if ever there was one. Dull I call it. However, for those who like it there it is."
Henry said nothing.