“Father!”
“To beg, eh?”
“Can a daughter beg?”
“He has deserted you, the fine fellow—”
“No, no, not that.”
Zeus Gildersedge propped himself upon his pillows, his birdlike head straining forward upon its yellow neck.
“You have timed it well, eh?”
“Timed it, father?”
“To sneak back and play the pretty penitent and finger the old man’s money.”
“We are poor, father.”