"My son," said old Maisie. "I have a son, have I not?"—this in a frightened way, as though again in doubt of her own sanity—"and he is bad, is he not, and has written me a letter?"
"That's all right. I've got the letter, to show to my father."
"Oh yes—do show it—to the old gentleman I saw. He is your father...."
"You would like to say something about your son, dear Mrs. Picture—something we can do for you. Now try and tell me just what you would like."
"I want you, my dear, to find me my purse out of the other watch-pocket. I asked my Ruth to put it there.... She is Widow Thrale ... is she not?" Every effort at thought of her surroundings was a strain to her mind, plainly enough.
"There it is!" said Gwen. "Soon found!... Now, am I to see how much money you've got in it?"
"Yes, please!" It was an old knitted silk purse with a slip-ring. In the early fifties the leather purses with snaps, that leak at the seam and let half-sovereigns through before you find it out, were rare in the pockets of old people.
"Six new pounds, and one, two, three, four shillings in silver, and two sixpences, and one fourpence, and a halfpenny! Shall I keep it for you, to be safe?"
"No, dear! I want—I want....
"I hope," thought Gwen to herself, "she's not going to have it sent to her execrable son. Yes, dear, what is it you want done with it?"