"We all know that," said Mrs. Pamflett, in a voice as composed as his own. "You always do what is right. Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge and their children are going to have tea with Miss Phoebe in honour of her birthday, and I have been getting it ready, and am going to wait on them. You ought to join them. I have set a chair for you at the head of the table." "Oh, father, if you would!" implored Phoebe, clasping her hands. "You wish it?" he asked of her, but not removing his eyes from Mrs. Pamflett's face. "Yes, father. If you would only be so good!" "And _you_ wish it?" he asked of Mrs. Pamflett. "For Miss Phoebe's sake I do," replied Mrs. Pamflett, without so much as winking an eyelid. "Not for your own?" "I have told you what I think." "Let it be so," said Miser Farebrother. "Phoebe, I will take tea with you and your friends." "Oh, papa!" In her gratitude the affectionate girl--only too ready to give love for love--threw her arms round her father's neck and kissed him. "There! there!" he said, pushing her away; "go down to your friends. You can stop, Mrs. Pamflett." Phoebe ran down-stairs to convey the good news to the Lethbridges, and Mrs. Pamflett and the miser were left together. "Now, Mrs. Pamflett," he said abruptly, "what is all this about?" "I do not understand you," was her reply. "You understand me thoroughly," he said. "I can't see through a millstone, but I can see through you." "Then why do you ask me to explain anything?" she retorted. "You have lived here sixteen years," he said, "and you think you know me as well as I am sure I know you. Because I have never interfered with you, because I have allowed you to do as you like----" She interrupted him here. "Have I ever wasted a penny of your money?" "To my knowledge, no. If you had, you would have heard of it." "Yes, that is very certain. Every farthing spent in this house has been accounted for in the book which you look over every week. You would find it hard to get anybody in my place." "Oh, that is it! You threaten to leave me!" "You are not only mistaken, you know you are stating an untruth. Yes, an untruth." The words denoted indignation, but it was not expressed in her voice or manner. "Is that a proper way to speak to me?" he cried. "I pass no opinion," was her unimpassioned reply. "If you are tired of me, or if I do not please you, you can send me away." "You would go?" "I should be bound to go. What else could I do? If I refused, you could call in the police." "You are bent upon exasperating me, I see. You know I could not do without you." "I know it." "And that is why you are impudent to me." "You have never found me so." "Because I am bound to you hand and foot, because you know my ways, having grown into them, because I depend upon you and trust you, because I am weak and ill and dependent, you think you can twist me about as you like. You shall find that you are mistaken."