'Please father,' said Nelly, 'do what Miss Nancarrow wants.' Bunce kept his face half averted. He was at a dire pass. 'Well, Mr. Bunce?' 'That's all nonsense!' he exclaimed. 'How can I tell that I should ever be able to pay you back?' 'So you won't?' 'Of course I can't. It's just like you to offer, but of course I can't.' 'Very well, I can't help it.' She lowered her voice. 'I forgot to tell you that I can't get the money till I'm married. It doesn't matter, I've offered it.' Bunce stared at her. 'Good-bye, Nelly,' Totty went on. 'I can't be friends with you after this. Your father's told me to go about my business.' 'No, he hasn't,' protested the child, dolorously. 'You haven't, have you, father?' 'Yes, he has. It doesn't matter, I'm off.' She jumped up. Bunce sprang to his feet at the same time, and caught her up in a moment. She turned, looked at him reddened, laughed. 'Why did you say anything about that money?' he began, able to speak without restraint at length. 'If I hadn't known about that!' 'I don't see what the money's got to do with it.' 'I do. Look, I should have felt like making a fool of myself--a man of my age and with two children--but I do believe when I'd got into those new rooms I couldn't have helped some day asking you if--well, I can't say it. I'm ashamed of myself, that's the truth.' 'And what does that matter, Mr. Bunce, so long as I'm not ashamed of you?' 'When you might do so well? A man like me--and the children?' 'How you talk! Don't you think I'm fond of the children?' 'Come and sit down again and talk a bit.' 'No. Will you have the money, Mr. Bunce, or won't you?' 'I'd very much rather have you without it, Totty, and that's the honest truth.' 'Yes, but you can't, you see. Now, you'll have a rare tale to tell of me some day, when you're tired of me, And it's all come of your changing your lodgings.' 'I know.' 'No, you don't know. Come and sit down, and I'll tell you.' Totty went back, and fondled Nelly against her side, and explained why the threatened change of abode had made her act with such independence--characteristic to the end. CHAPTER XXXV THREE LETTERS _Walter Egremont to Mrs. Ormonde._ 'Where I to spend the rest of my natural life in this country--which assuredly I have no intention of doing--I think I should never settle down to an hour's indulgence of those tastes which were born in me, and which, in spite of all neglect, are in fact as strong as ever. I cannot read the books I wish to read; I cannot even think the thoughts I wish to think. As I have told you, the volumes I brought out with me lay in their packing-cases for more than six months after my arrival, and for all the use I have made of them in this second six months they might be still there. The shelves in the room which I call my library are furnished, but I dare not look how much dust they have accumulated.