The servant who answered the door wore a strange look, as if something had
alarmed her; she professed not to know whether any one was at home, and, on
going to inquire, shut the door on the visitor's face. A few minutes
elapsed before Mr. Lott was admitted. The hall struck him as rather bare;
and at the entrance of the drawing-room he stopped in astonishment, for,
excepting the window-curtains and a few ornaments, the room was quite
unfurnished. At the far end stood a young woman, her hands behind her, and
her head bent--an attitude indicative of distress or shame.
'Are you moving, Jane?' inquired Mr. Lott, eyeing her curiously.
His daughter looked at him. She had a comely face, with no little of the
paternal character stamped upon it; her knitted brows and sullen eyes
bespoke a perturbed humour, and her voice was only just audible.
'Yes, we are moving, father.'
Mr. Lott's heavy footfall crossed the floor. He planted himself before her,
his hands resting on his stick.
'What's the matter, Jane? Where's Bowles?'
'He left town yesterday. He'll be back to-morrow, I think.'
'You've had the brokers in the house--isn't that it, eh?'
Mrs. Bowles made no answer, but her head sank again, and a trembling of her
shoulders betrayed the emotion with which she strove.
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