“I can pay that,” said Paul.
There was a silence between them for some time.
“She says she hopes you’re getting on all right with Minnie,” Paul said.
“Yes, I’m all right, an’ I wish as she was,” answered Morel. “But Minnie’s a good little wench, bless ’er heart!” He sat looking dismal.
“I s’ll have to be going at half-past three,” said Paul.
“It’s a trapse for thee, lad! Eight guineas! An’ when dost think she’ll be able to get as far as this?”
“We must see what the doctors say to-morrow,” Paul said.
Morel sighed deeply. The house seemed strangely empty, and Paul thought his father looked lost, forlorn, and old.
“You’ll have to go and see her next week, father,” he said.
“I hope she’ll be a-whoam by that time,” said Morel.
“If she’s not,” said Paul, “then you must come.”
“I dunno wheer I s’ll find th’ money,” said Morel.
“And I’ll write to you what the doctor says,” said Paul.
“But tha writes i’ such a fashion, I canna ma’e it out,” said Morel.
“Well, I’ll write plain.”
It was no good asking Morel to answer, for he could scarcely do more than write his own name.
The doctor came. Leonard felt it his duty to meet him with a cab. The examination did not take long. Annie, Arthur, Paul, and Leonard were waiting in the parlour anxiously. The doctors came down. Paul glanced at them. He had never had any hope, except when he had deceived himself.
“It may be a tumour; we must wait and see,” said Dr. Jameson.
“And if it is,” said Annie, “can you sweal it away?”
“Probably,” said the doctor.
Paul put eight sovereigns and half a sovereign on the table. The doctor counted them, took a florin out of his purse, and put that down.
“Thank you!” he said. “I’m sorry Mrs. Morel is so ill. But we must see what we can do.”
“There can’t be an operation?” said Paul.
The doctor shook his head.
