“I am sure I can't say; not much, I presume.”
“It is my impression,” said Nora—“I am not sure; but it is my impression—that there is nothing left to meet this big thing but the—the—the land on which”—her voice broke—“Terry, the land on which the house stands.”
“Really, Nora, you are so melodramatic. I don't know how you can know anything of this.”
“I only guess. Mother is very unhappy.”
“Mother? Is she?”
“Ah, I have touched you there! But anyhow, father is in worse trouble than he has been yet; I never, never saw him look as he did tonight.”
“As if looks mattered.”
“The look I saw tonight does matter,” said Nora. “We were coming home from Cronane, and I was driving.”
“It is madness to let you drive Black Bess,” interrupted Terence. “I wonder my father risks spoiling one of his most valuable horses.”
“Oh, nonsense, Terry; I can drive as well as you, and better, thanks,” replied Nora, much nettled, for her excellent driving was one of the few things she was proud of. “Well, I turned round, and I saw father's face, and, oh! it was just as if someone had stabbed me through the heart. You know, or perhaps you don't, that the last big loan came from Squire Murphy.”