“You’ve no right to think,” thundered Monk; “you’re not paid for thinking; you’re paid for keeping the girl, and what more do you want?—Matt,” he continued in a softer tone, “come to me.”
But Matt didn’t hear—or, at any rate, did not heed; for she made no movement. Then Monk, gazing intently at her, gave vent to the same remark as William Jones had done a few hours before.
“Where have you been to-day,” he said, “to have on that frock?”
Again Matt hung her head and was silent. Monk repeated his question; and seeing that he was determined to have an answer, she threw up her head defiantly and said, with a tone of pride in her voice—
“I put it on to be took!”
“To be took?” repeated Monk.
“Yes,” returned Matt; “to have my likeness took. There be a painter chap here that lives in a cart; he’s took it.”
It was curious to note the changes in Mr. Monk’s face: at first he tried to appear amiable; then his face gradually darkened into a look of angry suspicion.
Matt never once withdrew her eyes from him—his very presence seemed to rouse all that was bad in her—and she glared at him through her tangled locks in much the same manner that a shaggy terrier puppy might gaze at a bull which it would fain attack, but feared on account of its superior strength.
“Matt,” said Mr. Monk again, “come here.”