"Thank you, mother," said Ned, availing himself of the implied permission.
"I hear you've undergone a reformation," said his father.
"I hope so, sir. They tell me I've got religion."
"Who tells you?"
"The Methodists. I went to their meetings in London. I—I thought I needed a little of that kind of thing. That's how I happened to—to save my soul."
"And how do you conceive you will provide for your body?"
"I don't know yet—exactly. If I might stay here till I could find some employment—"
Mr. Faringfield met the pleading look of Fanny, and the prudent one of his wife. The latter reflected, as plainly as words, what had manifestly entered his own mind: that immunity from future trouble on Ned's account might indeed be had without recourse to a step entailing public disgrace upon the family. So he said:
"My intention was, if you should ever show your face in New York again, to see you punished for that matter of the money and Mr. Palmer. I don't give up that intention; I shall only postpone carrying it out, during your good behaviour."
"Thank you, sir; I dare say it's better than I deserve."