‘Oh no, nothing so diverting. That would be fun!’ Bertha said, with a laugh that had no merriment in it. ‘He is a clerk—an attorney’s clerk! What do you think of that, Lettice?’
‘Better than the jockey.’
‘Oh, very respectable, they say’—with a sound of disgust.
‘Is he young?’
‘No; caught early, something might be done with him, but there’s not that hope. He is not much less than forty. Fancy a creature that has pettifogged, as an underling too, all his life.’
‘Married?’
‘Thank goodness, no, and all the mammas in London and in the country will be running after him. Not that he will be any great catch, for of course he has nothing—and the poor place will be brought to a low ebb.’
‘And what do you mean to do, Birdie?’
‘Get out of sight of it all as fast as possible! Forget that horses ever existed except as means of locomotion,’ and Bertha got up and walked towards the window as if restless with pain, then came back.
‘I shall get rid of all I can—and come to live as near as I can to Whitechapel, and slum! I’m free now.’ Then looking at her cousin’s sorrowful, wistful face, ‘Work, work, work, that’s all that’s good for me. Soberly, Lettice, this is my plan,’ she added, sitting down again. ‘I know how it all is left. This new man is to have enough to go on