"This morning," shortly answered Matilda, not looking up from her book.
"Yes, Arthur can write often enough to Dick. This is the second letter that has come for him within a week. What did you do with the other?" madam broke off to ask.
"Put it into Dick's room until he comes home."
"But Arthur does not trouble himself to write to us, or to let us know anything of his movements," resumed madam. "We have not had a syllable from him since he sent word that old Bohun was dead. Is he still in London?--or at his aunt's?--or where?"
"I'm sure I don't know where," retorted Matilda, irritated at being interrupted.
Neither did she care. Madam turned the letter over in idle curiosity: but the postmark was not to be deciphered. Leaving it on the mantelpiece, she went to look after Mr. North. He stood on the lawn, doing something to a dwarf-tree of small and beautiful roses. There was some wind to-day, and his long coat waved a little in the breeze.
"Did you hear what I said--that I was coming to your parlour?" demanded madam, swooping down upon him majestically. "Money must be had. I want it; Sidney wants it; the house wants it. I----"
Mr. North had straightened himself. Desperation gave him a little courage.
"I would give it you if I had it. I have always given it you. But what is to be done when I have it not? You must see that it is not my fault, madam."
"I see that when money is needed it is your place to find it," coolly returned madam. "Sidney cannot live upon air. He has----"