h. Mother
was always out, and father in business. Fancy," she said, laughing,
"father in business! We were happy then, I think, all of us. Then
came the terrible time when father ran away."

"Ah, yes," Harry said, "he told me."

"Poor mother! it was quite dreadful; I was only eight then, and I
didn't understand. But she sat up all night waiting for him. She was
persuaded that he was killed, and she was very ill. You see he had
never left any word as to where he was. And then he suddenly turned up
again, and ate an enormous breakfast, as though nothing had happened.
I don't think he realised a bit that she had worried.

"It was so like him, the naked selfishness of it and the utter
unresponsibility, as of a child.

"Then I went to school--in Bloomsbury somewhere. It was a Miss Pinker,
and she was interested in me. Poor thing, her school failed
afterwards. I don't know quite why, but she never could manage, and I
don't think parents ever paid her. I had great ideas of myself then; I
thought that I would be great, an actress or a novelist, but I got rid
of all that soon enough. I was happy; we had friends, and luxuries
were rare enough to make them valuable. Then--we came down here--this
sea, this town, this moor--Oh! how I hate them!"

Her hands were clenched and her face was white. "It isn't fair; they
have taken everything from me--leisure, brain, friends. I have had to
slave ever since I came here to make both ends meet. Ah! you never
knew that, did you? But father has never done a stroke of work since
he has been here, and mother has never been the same since that night
when he ran away; so I've had it all--and it has been scrape, scrape,
scrape all the time. You don't know the tyranny of butter and eggs and
vegetables, the perpetual struggle to turn twice two into five, the
unending worry about keeping up appearances--although, for us, it
mattered precious little, people never came to see if appearances were
kept.

"They called at first; I think they meant to be kind, but father was
sometimes rude and never seemed to know whether he had met a person
before or no. Then he was idle, they thought, and they disliked him
for that. We gave some little parties, but they failed miserably, and
at last people always refused. And, really, it was rather a good
thing, because we hadn't got the money. I suppose I'm a bad manager;
at any rate, whatever it is, things have been getting worse and worse,