"You'll find the wench a handful. She's been no good to me. I'd as lieve let her go her own way as keep her. A young 'oman with a pretty face hasn't got no need to trouble about getting a living. Sooner or later she'll give me the slip—but—well—if you takes her and makes a lady of her what do I get out of it?"
This was a view of the matter which had not occurred to the poet. He felt decidedly embarrassed. His project appeared to be more costly than he had at first imagined.
"It is for the benefit of your daughter," he stammered.
"Her benefit, indeed. Fiddle-de-dee! Your own you mean. I know what men are. If she was an ugly slut you wouldn't take no notice of her. Don't talk rubbish. What are you a going to give me for saying, yes. That's business, mister. Come, how much?"
The poet saw there was no other way but talking business. This embarrassed him still more for he was the last man qualified to act in such a capacity.
"I'll see what I can do," said he nervously, "but you mustn't forget that Lavinia will have to be quite two years at school, and there is her music master——"
"Oh I dare say," rejoined the lady scoffingly, "and the mantle maker, and the milliner, and the glover, and the hairdresser. That's your affair, not mine. Name a round sum and I'll try to meet you. What d'ye say?"
"Would five guineas——?"
"What!" shrieked Lavinia's mother. "And you call yourself a gentleman?"
"The sum I admit is a small one, but as you seemed anxious to get your daughter off your hands I thought I was doing you a service by putting the girl in a way to earn a good living."