“Thomas has gone up to London, expecting to bring funds down. In that case it will open on Monday morning.”
How could he tell it her? Knowing as he did know, and he alone, that through his deep-laid machinations, there were no longer funds available for the Bank or for Thomas Godolphin.
“Need you go to London,” she asked in a wailing tone, “if Thomas has gone? I shall be left alone.”
“I must go. There’s no help for it.”
“And which day shall you be back again? By Monday?”
“Not perhaps by Monday. Keep up your spirits, Maria. It will be all right.”
Meta came bursting in. She was going down to dinner. Was mamma coming to luncheon?
No, mamma did not want any. Margery would attend to her. George picked up the child and carried her into his room. In his drawers he had found some trifling toy; brought home for Meta weeks ago, and forgotten to be given to her. It had lain there since. It was one of those renowned articles, rarer now than they once were, called Bobbing Joan. George had given sixpence for it. A lady, with a black head and neck, a round body, and no visible legs. He put it on the top of the drawers, touched it, and set it bobbing at Meta.
She was all delight; she stretched out her hands for it eagerly. But George, neglecting the toy, sat down on a chair, clasped the child in his arms, and showered upon her more passionately heartfelt embraces than perhaps he had ever given to living mortal, child or woman. He did not keep her: the last long lingering kiss was pressed upon her rosy lips, and he put her down, handed her the toy, and bade her run and show it to mamma.
Away she went; to mamma first, and then in search of Margery.