“I don’t care what you do,” cried Dr. Roland, “as long as you do what I say.” Mr. Mannering was so indignant, so angry, so roused and excited, that he walked into his sitting-room that afternoon breathing fire and flame. “I shall return to the Museum next week,” he said. “Let them do what they please, Dora. Italy! And what better is Italy than England, I should like to know? A blazing hot, deadly cold, impudently beautiful country. No repose in it, always in extremes like a scene in a theatre, or else like chill desolation, misery, and death. I’ll not hear a word of Italy. The South of France is worse; all the exaggerations of the other, and a volcano underneath. He may rave till he burst, I will not go. The Museum is the place for me--or the grave, which might be better still.” “Would you take me there with you, father?” said Dora. “Child!” He said this word in such a tone that no capitals in the world could give any idea of it; and then that brought him to a pause, and increased the force of the hot stimulant that already was working in his veins. “But we have no money,” he cried,--“no money--no money. Do you understand that? I have been a fool. I have been going on spending everything I had. I never expected a long illness, doctors and nurses, and all those idiotic luxuries. I can eat a chop--do you hear, Dora?--a chop, the cheapest you can get. I can live on dry bread. But get into debt I will not--not for you and all your doctors. There’s that Fiddler and his odious book--three pounds ten--what for? For a piece of vanity, to say I had the 1490 edition: not even to say it, for who cares except some of the men at the Museum? What does Roland understand about the 1490 edition? He probably thinks the latest edition is always the best. And I--a confounded fool--throwing away my money--your money, my poor child!--for I can’t take you with me, Dora, as you say. God forbid--God forbid!” “Well, father,” said Dora, who had gone through many questions with herself since the conversation in Miss Bethune’s room, “suppose we were to try and think how it is to be done. No doubt, as he is the doctor, however we rebel, he will make us do it at the last.” “How can he make us do it? He cannot put money in my pocket, he cannot coin money, however much he would like it; and if he could, I suppose he would keep it for himself.” “I am not so sure of that, father.” “I am sure of this, that he ought to, if he is not a fool. Every man ought to who has a spark of sense in him. I have not done it, and you see what happens. Roland may be a great idiot, but not so great an idiot as I.” “Oh, father, what is the use of talking like this? Let us try and think how we are to do it,” Dora cried.