'You mean the hands, father?' said George, as he rose and politely placed a chair for his father.
'Yes, I mean the hands,' said Mr Clay, mimicking, with little success it must be owned, his son's soft, drawling tones and refined accents.
'I'm sorry you found them all bad material,' George replied, without noticing this.
'I didn't say I did; but part of it was bad, and as the good wouldn't stay without the bad, out they both had to go, and bitterly they'll rue the day they did it,' declared Mr Clay.
'I hope you won't,' burst out Sarah.
Her father looked as if he were going to get into one of his violent rages, but refrained, as he had done lately; and again Sarah could not help noticing the change that had taken place since Horatia's coming, though Horatia had not been able to prevent him from doing this latest act. 'I hope not; Clay's Mills sha'n't "play" for them,' he said quietly; but there was a satisfied look on his face that Sarah could not understand.
It was Saturday, and all that day and all Sunday the millionaire went about looking aggressively cheerful. 'He only does it just to annoy us,' said Sarah.
'It doesn't annoy me. I'm only too glad to see one cheerful face in the midst of so many gloomy ones, though I should like to know what it means,' said George.
'So should I, for Naomi says father has a big contract on, and will lose thousands every day he stands idle,' said Sarah.
George looked very serious. 'What can he be thinking of? He must be going cracky,' he opined.