Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. Your own safety—the child's safety—depends upon your candour. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood.
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