“Then you have not missed the others much?”
“No. We did not wish to pay out too quickly. Well—let us have some tea. Rodd will be glad of it. He has not tasted food since ten o’clock.”
“Did you go in, father?”
“For a minute,” smiling, “to scold them.”
“Oh, they are horrid!”
“No, they are just frightened. Frightened, child! We should do the same in their place.”
“No,” Betty said stoutly. “I shouldn’t! And I could never like anyone who did! Never!”
“Did what?”
“Took money from you when you wanted it so much! I think they’re mean! Mean! And I shall never think anything else!” Betty’s eyes sparkled, she was red with indignation. But the heat passed, and now she was paler than usual, she looked sad. Perhaps she had forgotten how things were, and now remembered; or perhaps—at any rate the glow faded and she was again the Betty of late days—a tired and depressed Betty.
She had seen to it that the fire was clear and the lamps burned brightly; had she not visited the room a dozen times to see to it? And now the curtains had been drawn, the tea-tray had come in, the kettle sang on the hob, the silver and china, reflecting the lights, twinkled a pleasant welcome to the tired man. Or they would have, if he could have believed that the comfort about him was permanent. But how long—the doubt tortured him—would it be his? How long could he ensure it for others? The waiting, anxious crowd, the scared faces, the clamorous customers, these were the things he saw, the things that blotted out the room and darkened the future. These were the only realities, the abiding, the menacing facts of life. He let his chin fall on his hand, and gazed moodily into the fire. A Napoleon of finance? Ay, but a Napoleon, crushed in the making, whose Waterloo had met him at Arcola!