“She's in her room, lying on the bed crying. She says she wants to die; she says that she doesn't care what becomes of her. She'll never care for another man, and father will not give his consent. What's-his-name has nothing--only a small allowance; he'll never have any more, he isn't a working man. I know father, he'll never hear of any one who is not a working man. I wish you'd speak to her.” “I've quite enough to do with my own affairs; I've had bad luck enough as it is, without running into new difficulties of my own accord.” “If she refuses Berkins, father'll never get over it. I wish you would speak to her.” “No, don't ask me. I never meddle in other people's affairs. I've had trouble enough. Now I want to dress.” When Maggie went downstairs, she found her father in the drawing-room. “The train was a little late to-night. Has Willy come back from Brighton?” “Yes, father.” “I've been looking over his accounts and I find he has lost nearly two thousand pounds in Bond Street, and I don't think he is doing any good with that agency in Brighton. I never approved of one or the other. I approve of nothing but legitimate city business. Shops in the West End! mere gambling. Where is Grace?” “She's in her room.” “In her room? I suppose she hasn't left it all day? This is very terrible. I don't know what to do with you. Since your poor mother died my life has been nothing but trouble and vexation. I can't manage you, you are too strong for me. So she hasn't left her room; crying her eyes out, because I won't consent to her marrying a penniless young officer! But I will not squander my money. I made it all myself, by my own industry, and I refuse to keep young fellows in idleness.” “I don't give you any trouble, father.” “You are the best, Maggie, but you encourage your sister Sally. I hear that you, too, were seen walking with young Meason.” “It is not true, I assure you, father. I met him as I was going to the post-office. I said, 'How do you do?' and I passed on.” “Where is Sally?” “She went out a few minutes ago.” “Didn't she know the time? She ought to be dressing for dinner. Do you know where she's gone?” “I think she went down the slonk.” His children had inherited his straight, sharp features and his small, black, vivid eyes. Their hair was of various hues of black. Maggie's was raven black and glossy; Sally's was coarse and of a hue like black-lead; Grace's was abundant and relieved with sooty shades; Willy's hair was brown. He was the fair one of the family, and his hair was always closely cut in military fashion, and he wore a long flowing military moustache with a tinge of red in it. His father and he were built on the same lines--long, spare bodies, short necks and legs, and short, spare arms, and if the father's white hair were dyed the years that separated him from his son would disappear, for although the son had only just turned thirty, he was middle-aged in face and feeling.