"No, miss, thank you. I'm not cold," was the faint reply. She was cold,
though, as well she might be with her poor, thin shawl, and open bonnet,
in such a bitter night as it was outside. And there was a rigid, sharp,
suffering look in her pinched features that betokened she might have
been hungry, too. "Poor people don't mind the cold weather, miss," she
said, with a weak smile, her voice getting a little stronger. "They
have to bear it, and they get used to it."

She had not evidently borne it long enough to effect the point of
indifference. Netty looked at her with a tender pity. Dr. Renton
thought to himself, Hoh!--blazoning her poverty,--manufacturing
sympathy already,--the old trick; and steeled himself against any
attacks of that kind, looking jealously, meanwhile, at Netty.

"Well, Mrs. Miller," he said, "what is it this evening? I suppose you've
brought me my rent."

The little woman grew paler, and her voice seemed to fail on her
quivering lips. Netty cast a quick, beseeching look at her father.

"Nathalie, please to leave the room." We'll have no nonsense carried
on here, he thought, triumphantly, as Netty rose, and obeyed the stern,
decisive order, leaving the door ajar behind her.

He seated himself in his chair, and resolutely put his right leg up
to rest on his left knee. He did not look at his tenant's face,
determined that her piteous expressions (got up for the occasion, of
course) should be wasted on him.