It was about a year later than the disgrace of the house of Bommaney that old Brown, to his daughter’s perplexity and grief, began to show signs of trouble almost as marked as those he had displayed after his old friend’s defection. The old boy’s newspaper no longer interested him of a morning. He began to be lax about that morning ride which he had once regarded as being absolutely necessary to the preservation of health in London. He had been impassioned with the theatre, and had become a diligent attendant at first-night performances. Even these ceased to have any joy for him, and he neglected, in fine, all his old sources of amusement He went about sorrowful and grumpy, expressing the dolefullest opinions about everything. There was going to be war, stocks were going down, trade was crumbling, there was no virtue in man.
Patty tried her best to coax him from these pessimistic moods, but the old boy was not to be persuaded. On fine evenings, when there was nothing better to be done, he had loved greatly, between the quiet old-fashioned tea and the quiet old-fashioned supper, to dress for out of doors, and with Patty on his arm to wander into Regent’s Park, and there inhale the best imitation of country atmosphere that London could afford. He dropped this amiable and affectionate habit, and took to rambling out alone, coming home late, and haggard, and not infrequently, at such times, staring at his daughter with an aspect so sorrowing and wretched that she knew not what to make of him.
The girl, watching him with a constantly increasing solicitude, could at last endure this condition of affairs no longer. He came home one night, leaving neither his stick nor hat in the outer hall, and sat down in the dining-room, muffled and great-coated, the picture of dejection. Patty, kneeling before him, removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and began to unbutton his overcoat.
‘Papa!’ she cried suddenly, ‘what _is_ the matter with you? Why are you so changed?’
He breathed a great sigh, and laid his hand upon her head. Then he turned his face away from her--to hide his eyes, she fancied.
‘You are in trouble,’ she went on. ‘It is not kind to keep it from me. Is it anything that I have done, or anything I could do.’