Lucy felt a little nervous under her father’s apparently gratuitous criticism of Mr Wakem’s expenditure. But it ceased there, and Mr Deane became unusually silent and meditative during his luncheon. Lucy, accustomed to watch all indications in her father, and having reasons, which had recently become strong, for an extra interest in what referred to the Wakems, felt an unusual curiosity to know what had prompted her father’s questions. His subsequent silence made her suspect there had been some special reason for them in his mind. With this idea in her head, she resorted to her usual plan when she wanted to tell or ask her father anything particular: she found a reason for her aunt Tulliver to leave the dining-room after dinner, and seated herself on a small stool at her father’s knee. Mr Deane, under those circumstances, considered that he tasted some of the most agreeable moments his merits had purchased him in life, notwithstanding that Lucy, disliking to have her hair powdered with snuff, usually began by mastering his snuff-box on such occasions. “You don’t want to go to sleep yet, papa, _do_ you?” she said, as she brought up her stool and opened the large fingers that clutched the snuff-box. “Not yet,” said Mr Deane, glancing at the reward of merit in the decanter. “But what do _you_ want?” he added, pinching the dimpled chin fondly,—“to coax some more sovereigns out of my pocket for your bazaar? Eh?” “No, I have no base motives at all to-day. I only want to talk, not to beg. I want to know what made you ask Philip Wakem about his father’s farming to-day, papa? It seemed rather odd, because you never hardly say anything to him about his father; and why should you care about Mr Wakem’s losing money by his hobby?” “Something to do with business,” said Mr Deane, waving his hands, as if to repel intrusion into that mystery. “But, papa, you always say Mr Wakem has brought Philip up like a girl; how came you to think you should get any business knowledge out of him? Those abrupt questions sounded rather oddly. Philip thought them queer.” “Nonsense, child!” said Mr Deane, willing to justify his social demeanour, with which he had taken some pains in his upward progress. “There’s a report that Wakem’s mill and farm on the other side of the river—Dorlcote Mill, your uncle Tulliver’s, you know—isn’t answering so well as it did. I wanted to see if your friend Philip would let anything out about his father’s being tired of farming.” “Why? Would you buy the mill, papa, if he would part with it?” said Lucy, eagerly. “Oh, tell me everything; here, you shall have your snuff-box if you’ll tell me. Because Maggie says all their hearts are set on Tom’s getting back the mill some time. It was one of the last things her father said to Tom, that he must get back the mill.”