The man said he would not fail to do so, and Ovington thanked him and saw him out by the private door. Then, taking with him certain books and the slips of paper that Rodd had sent in to him at hourly intervals, he went into the dining-room. Things were no worse than he had expected, but they were no better. Or, yes, they were, a few hundreds better. Betty was there, awaiting him with an anxious face. She had had no slips to inform her from hour to hour how things went, and she had been too wise to intrude on her father. But many times she had looked from the windows on the scene before the bank, on the shifting crowd, the hasty arrivals, the groups that clung unwearied to the steps of the Butter Cross; and though poverty—she was young—had few terrors for her, she comprehended only too well what her father was suffering—ay, and, though it was a minor evil, what a blister to his pride was this gathering of his neighbors to witness his fall! So, though she could have put on an appearance of cheerfulness, she felt that it would not accord with his mood, and instead, “Well, father,” she said, with loving anxiety, “is it bad or good?” And, as he sank wearily into his chair, she passed her arm about his shoulders. “Well,” he replied, with the sigh of a tired man, “it is pretty much as we expected. I don’t know, child, that it is better or worse. But Rodd will be here presently and he will tell us. He must be worn out, poor chap. He has borne the brunt of the day, and he has borne it famously. Famously! I offered to take his place at the dinner-hour but he would not have it. He has not left the counter for five minutes at a time, and he has shown splendid nerve.” “Then you have not missed the others much?” “No. We did not wish to pay out too quickly. Well—let us have some tea. Rodd will be glad of it. He has not tasted food since ten o’clock.” “Did you go in, father?” “For a minute,” smiling, “to scold them.” “Oh, they are horrid!” “No, they are just frightened. Frightened, child! We should do the same in their place.” “No,” Betty said stoutly. “I shouldn’t! And I could never like anyone who did! Never!” “Did what?” “Took money from you when you wanted it so much! I think they’re mean! Mean! And I shall never think anything else!” Betty’s eyes sparkled, she was red with indignation. But the heat passed, and now she was paler than usual, she looked sad. Perhaps she had forgotten how things were, and now remembered; or perhaps—at any rate the glow faded and she was again the Betty of late days—a tired and depressed Betty.