"I thought I should like to know when it would be suitable to you to go, Mr. Quarle."
He laid down his fork very slowly, and looked up at her; picked up the fork again, and resumed his breakfast. "Don't talk nonsense, Bessie," he said.
"But, indeed, Mr. Quarle, I mean it," she urged. "The house is going to be sold up—and all the lodgers are going. Of course I'm very sorry——"
"And pray what's the execution for this time?" he demanded, laying down his fork finally with a sigh, and leaning back in his chair. "And how much is it?"
"You won't understand," she exclaimed, taking a seat at the further side of the table, and resting her chin on her folded hands, and smiling across at him. "You've been so very good to me always, Mr. Quarle, that I thought you'd be glad."
"Glad! Because once again you're in difficulties?"
"But we're not; it's quite the other way about," she exclaimed. "We're only getting rid of this place—and the lodgers—and you—because father has come into a lot of money, and is taking me down into the country."
"Your father has come into a lot of money?" The man burst into a laugh, and picked up his fork again. "Who's told him so?"
"Mr. Quarle—you are really most unkind," she said. "Father is much more clever than anyone has ever imagined; he has speculated and made money, while we have all thought that he has merely been living the life of a—a gentleman—and doing nothing. Ask him yourself if you're not sure."