“Ah! poor girl! A tragedy of poverty! But you have not neglected Pamela’s education?”
“She’s had the best that money could give her!”
O’Hagan seized the hand of the bewildered Mr. Crichton and wrung it warmly.
“There are redeeming features in your character, Crichton!” he said. “For your endeavours on the girl’s behalf I can forgive you much. Rely upon my friendship! And Pamela has literary inclinations?”
“No, sir,” answered the newsagent, whose world was being turned topsy-turvy, who alternately believed that he was in the company of a madman or that he himself was mad. “She’s a musician; I’ve had her properly taught; she composes!”
Above all the chaos reigning in his mind, paternal pride asserted its sovereignty and his voice proclaimed it.
“Ah! composes? She has just gone to see a publisher? She had music in the leather case?”
“Her new piece, sir. She reckons it’s goin’ to make her!”
“What has she published?”
Mr. Crichton, crestfallen: