“My father’s sick,” she replied.
“What’s happened to him?”
“He burned his hands at the glass-works. We’ve been terribly worried. It looks as though he would not be able to use them any more.”
She paused, looking the distress she felt, and he saw plainly that she was facing a crisis.
“That’s too bad,” he said. “That certainly is. When did this happen?”
“Oh, almost three weeks ago now.”
“It certainly is bad. Come in to lunch, though. I want to talk with you. I’ve been wanting to get a better understanding of your family affairs ever since I left.” He led the way into the dining-room and selected a secluded table. He tried to divert her mind by asking her to order the luncheon, but she was too worried and too shy to do so and he had to make out the menu by himself. Then he turned to her with a cheering air. “Now, Jennie,” he said, “I want you to tell me all about your family. I got a little something of it last time, but I want to get it straight. Your father, you said, was a glass-blower by trade. Now he can’t work any more at that, that’s obvious.”
“Yes,” she said.
“How many other children are there?”
“Six.”