Margaret shook herself together with an effort. No, she would not be beaten back at the first step; it would be degrading. The mutiny in her breast, whatever it was, whether a hitherto unknown undercurrent of false pride or a new and abnormal sensitiveness, must be conquered. With a smile that was almost pitiful in its attempted bravery she said: “No, Lizzette; it is now or never. You will soon see what a brave market-woman I will make. I shall make a sale to the next comer. Good-morning, madam! How can I serve you?” she asked, as a woman who wore diamonds and silk approached and sniffed contemptuously above the little display of greenery.
“Dear me! You don’t seem to have anything fit for a pig to eat,” said the woman as with ungloved hand flashing with diamonds she deliberately reached for a measure of spinach, and turned it bottom side up on the little counter.
“I presume not,” said Margaret, quietly picking up the spinach and restoring it to its place. “We don’t sell to pigs here.”
“H’m! impertinent!” and with a haughty stare into Margaret’s face, the diamonds and silk passed on. Lizzette was convulsed with laughter. Margaret stole a quick glance at her, and the white scorn of her face lit up with a smile.
“That was a tonic, Lizzette,” she said. “I shall do better next time.”
A second later a sweet-faced little matron stopped at the counter, asked for prices, made her selection, and looking earnestly at Margaret, said: “You are a newcomer here. I know all the old faces.”
“It is my first effort.”
“And you find it hard?”
“A little. I shall get used to it.”
“Ah, yes, we get used to almost everything in this world. I shall remember you and look for you to-morrow. Good morning.” And with a slight bow the little matron took up her purchases and went on her way.