"I don't come to you to beg," replied she with a little display of spirit.
"What do you want, then?"
"You mustn't be angry with me, Mr. Checkynshaw."
"I'm not angry with you. If you have anything to say, say it. I hate long stories," said the banker, impatiently.
"Fitz has taken it into his head that the block of stores which my father gave to Mary belongs to us," continued Mrs. Wittleworth, looking down to the floor, as if fearful that the great man's glance would blast her if she beheld it.
"Has he, indeed?"
If Mrs. Wittleworth had looked at the banker instead of the floor, she might have seen that his face flushed slightly; that his lip quivered, and his chest heaved; but, as she did not look at him, the banker had time to suppress these tell-tale emotions.
"He thinks so; and he seems to be determined that something shall be done about it," added the poor woman, still gazing intently at the floor.
"And you encourage such ridiculous notions—do you, Ellen?" said Mr. Checkynshaw, severely.
"I don't know that I encourage them. I can't help his thoughts."