She was haunted by an uneasy sense of doubtfulness as to her social
position. Mr. Lord followed the calling of a dealer in pianos; a
respectable business, to be sure, but, it appeared, not lucrative
enough to put her above caring how his money was made. She knew that
one's father may be anything whatever, yet suffer no social
disability, provided he reap profit enough from the pursuit. But
Stephen Lord, whilst resorting daily to his warehouse in Camberwell
Road--not a locality that one would care to talk about in
'cultured' circles--continued, after twenty years, to occupy this
small and ugly dwelling in Grove Lane. Possibly, owing to an
imperfect education, he failed to appreciate his daughter's needs,
and saw no reason why she should not be happy in the old
surroundings.

On the other hand, perhaps he cared very little about her.
Undoubtedly his favourite was Horace, and in Horace he had suffered
a disappointment. The boy, in spite of good schooling, had proved
unequal to his father's hope that he would choose some professional
career, by preference the law; he idled away his schooldays, failed
at examinations, and ultimately had to be sent into 'business.' Mr
Lord obtained a place for him in a large shipping agency; but it
still seemed doubtful whether he would make any progress there,
notwithstanding the advantage of his start; at two-and-twenty he was
remunerated with a mere thirty shillings a week, a nominal salary,'
his employers called it. Nancy often felt angry with her brother for
his lack of energy and ambition; he might so easily, she thought,
have helped to establish, by his professional dignity, her own
social status at the level she desired.