“Not told him, my dear! how is that?”
“I wish with all my heart you’d mind your own affairs.”
“Mr. Furze! what is the matter? You do not seem to know what you are saying.”
“I know perfectly well what I am saying. I wish you knew what you are saying. When we came up here to the Terrace—much good has it done us—I thought I should have no interference with my business. You understand nothing whatever about it, and I shall take it as a favour if you will leave it alone.”
Mrs. Furze was aghast. Presently she took out her pocket-handkerchief and retreated to her bedroom. Mr. Furze did not follow her, but his dinner remained untouched. When he rose to leave, Catharine went after him to the door, caught hold of his hand and silently kissed him, but he did not respond.
During the dinner-hour Tom had looked in the counting-house and saw the letters lying on the table untouched. Mr. Eaton’s steward came in with congratulations that the tender was accepted, but he could not wait. As Mr. Furze passed through the shop Tom told him simply that the steward had called.
“What did he want?”
“I do not know, sir.”
Mr. Furze went to his papers again and shut the door. He was still more incapable of collecting his thoughts and of determining how to begin. First of all came the contract, but before he could settle a single step the navigation presented itself. Then, without any progress, came the rise in the price of iron, and so forth. In about three hours the post would be going, and nothing was done. He cast about for some opportunity of a renewal of intercourse with Tom, and looked anxiously through his window, hoping that Tom might have some question to ask. At last he could stand it no longer, and he opened the door and called out—
“Mr. Catchpole”—not the familiar “Tom.” Mr. Catchpole presented himself.