It was not time quite for the carriage to be at the door, and Mr. Digby sat down to a bit of drawing; he was making a copy for Rotha. Rotha stood by, doubtful and thoughtful.
"Mr. Digby," she said at last shyly, "there is something I should like very much to ask."
"Ask it, Rotha."
"But I do not know whether you would like it—and yet I cannot know without asking—"
"Naturally. What is it, Rotha?"
"Mr. Digby, my mother hadn't anything at all, had she? Money, I mean."
"Of late? No, Rotha, I believe not."
The girl hesitated and struggled with herself.
"I thought so," she said. "And while it was you, I didn't mind. But now,—how will it be, Mr. Digby?"
Mr. Digby got at the sense of this by some intuition.