“Well, that’s just the nice part of it,” said Jackie eagerly—“so interesting, always to be among the animals and things. And then his shop’s in the very best part of Dorminster, where he can see everything pass, and all his friends drop in and tell him the news. I don’t expect he’s ever dull.”
“I daresay not,” said Mary, with a shrug of contempt; “but I shouldn’t like to be a common vulgar man like that.”
Jackie got quite hot.
“I don’t believe Greenop’s vulgar at all,” he said. “Look how he stuffed those pheasants for father. I heard father say, ‘Greenop’s an uncommonly clever fellow!’ Father likes to talk to him, so he can’t be vulgar.”
Mary did not want another quarrel; she tried to soften her speech down.
“But you see I couldn’t be Mr. Greenop,” she said, “I could only be Mrs. Greenop, and sit in that dull little hole at the back of the shop and darn all day.”
“Oh, well,” Jackie acknowledged, “that might not be so pleasant; but,” he added, “you might be his daughter, and help to feed the birds, and serve in the shop.”
Mary tossed her head.
“What’s the good of talking like that?” she said; “I’m not his daughter, and I’m sure I don’t want to be.”
“But you’re always fond of pretending things,” persisted Jackie. “Supposing you could change, whose daughter would you like to be?”