"What folly are you talking, Dolly?" said Mr. Copley angrily. "You are meddling with what you do not understand."
But Dolly only clung closer, and having once broken the ice would not now give back. She must speak now.
"Father," she said, half sobbing, yet commanding the sobs down, "we are getting ruined. We are losing each other. Mother and I live alone—we do not see you—we are poor—we have not money to pay our dues—mother is not getting better—and I am breaking my heart about her, and about you. O father, let us come and live together again."
Dolly got no answer to this outburst, and hardly was conscious that she got none, she was so eagerly trying to swallow down the emotion which threatened to master her voice. Mr. Copley had no answer ready.
"Father," Dolly began again, "mother wants to travel; she wants to go to Venice. Suppose we go?"
"Can't travel without money, Dolly. You say we haven't any."
"Would it cost more to travel than to live as we are living?"
"You say we cannot do that."
"Father, do you say so?"
"I am merely repeating your statements, Dolly, to show you how like a child you talk."