“No, indeed,” said Ann swiftly. “I think I was jolly lucky to have one.”
Uncle Tom nodded approval.
“You were that,” he said emphatically. Ann breathed again. “Why, my ole dad thought ’imself mighty lucky to ’ave ’is own tip-cart, an’——”
“Don’t be stoopid, pa,” said May. “Grandpa was only a common man.”
Her father gasped. Here was parricide.
“I mean,” said May sweetly, “he wasn’t a nurl.”
“I’ll bet he was just as good,” said Ann.
“So ’e was,” cried Uncle Tom. With an effort he emptied his mouth. “You ’ear?” he raved, turning upon May. “You ’ear, you undootiful girl? ’Ere’s a lady wot knows a nurl when she sees one an’ don’t ’ave to go to Boots’ Lendin’ Library to find out wot ’igh life means. An’ she says ’e was as good. ‘Common man’!” The iteration of the objectionable phrase re-pricked his piety. He wagged a cautionary forefinger. “You jus’ be careful, young woman. Don’t you go gettin’ ideas above your station. Jus’ because you go orf to dances an’ cinemas o’ nights an’ keep a tame mug ’andy to buy you cheap sweets—that don’ make you no better than wot you are. Ladies is born. . . .”
Never was enemy so hoist with his own petard.
Never was the seasoning of bitterness so sloshed into the pot.