"Yes, mamma," said David; "perhaps I am."
"Perhaps you are? Why my patience!"—
"Your patience seems to have given out, daughter," said Mrs. Lloyd. "Come, let Davy eat his breakfast."
"He's eating it," said Judy. "Nothing will hurt David's appetite."
"I should think nursing poor folks out of tenement houses might," observed Mrs. Bartholomew. "It would once."
"I can't imagine, mamma," said Judy, "how we are going to live together in future. David isn't our sort any more. Life looks dark to me."
"If it was anybody but David," said Mrs. Bartholomew, "I should say he would grow out of it. Any other young fool would."
"Grow out of what, mamma?" David asked.
"Grow out of the notion of being an agent of the poor societies. It's too disgusting!"
"Mamma," he said, and he said it with such an unruffled face that Matilda was comforted, "the poor society would not have done what I did last night. And I am not doing it for the poor societies, but for the King Messiah. I am His agent; that's all."