George was at a large table; it was covered with account-books. Hard at work he appeared to be, making entries with his pen, by the light of his shaded lamp. “How busy you are, George!” she cried.
“Ay,” said he, pleasantly. “Let no one call me idle again.”
“But why need you do it, George? You used not to work at night.”
“More work falls to my score, now Thomas does not take his full share of it,” observed George.
“Does it? I fancied neither you nor Thomas had much actual work to do. I thought you left it to the clerks. Isaac laughed at me one day, a long time ago, when I said something about your keeping the bank accounts. He asked me what I thought clerks were paid for.”
“Never mind Isaac. What have you come in for? To tell me you are dull?—as you did last night.”
“No. But I do get to feel very dull in an evening. You are scarcely ever with me now, George.”
“Business must be attended to,” responded George. “You should get some visitors in.”
“They would not be you,” was Maria’s answer, simply spoken. “I came to tell you now that papa is here. Have you time to come and see him?”
George knitted his brow. The prospect of entertaining the Reverend Mr. Hastings did not appear to have charms for him. Not that he allowed Maria to see the frown. She continued: