Mildred gave a short, dry laugh.
Up flared her mother. "I mean every word I said!" cried she. "If I hadn't admired and appreciated him, I'd certainly not have acted as I did. I couldn't stoop to such hypocrisy."
"Fiddlesticks!" sneered Presbury. "Bill Siddall is a horror. His house is a horror. His dinner was a horror. These loathsome rich people! They're ruining the world—as they always have. They're making it impossible for anyone to get good service or good food or good furniture or good clothing or good anything. They don't know good things, and they pay exorbitant prices for showy trash, for crude vulgar luxury. They corrupt taste. They make everyone round them or near them sycophants and cheats. They substitute money for intelligence and discrimination. They degrade every fine thing in life. Civilization is built up by brains and hard work, and along come the rich and rot and ruin it!"
Mildred and her mother were listening in astonishment. Said the mother:
"I'd be ashamed to confess myself such a hypocrite."
"And I, madam, would be ashamed to be such a hypocrite without taking a bath of confession afterward," retorted Presbury.
"At least you might have waited until Mildred wasn't in hearing," snapped she.
"I shall marry him if I can," said Mildred.
"And blissfully happy you'll be," said Presbury. "Women, ladies—true ladies, like you and your mother—have no sensibilities. All you ask is luxury. If Bill Siddall were a thousand times worse than he is, his money would buy him almost any refined, delicate lady anywhere in Christendom."
Mrs. Presbury laughed angrily. "YOU, talking like this—you of all men. Is there anything YOU wouldn't stoop to for money?"