“So they says,” he said darkly. “That’s their bettle-cry. But it’s a deliberate ’ave. They’re all in league, they are. The rich man’s ’and is agains’ the pore, an’ always ’as been.” He smote upon the table. “Walk down Bon’ Street, brother, an’ take a look at the cars. See ’ow the idle rich lives an’ moves an’ ’as their vile bein’. Caount the Rolls-Royce.” He paused dramatically. “But don’t you go gettin’ in their way. You may ’ave ’elped to pave it wiv blood an’ teers, but it’s not your street—’cause you’re only a common man.”
There was a frightful silence.
Suddenly May burst into ecstatic laughter.
Mr. Allen, who was about to drink, stared at her, tumbler in hand.
As the transport subsided, he set down his glass.
“An’ wot ’ave I said,” he demanded, “that you fin’ so ’ighly divertin’?”
“Oh, nothin’,” said May, looking to the cornice, as though for help to fight her mirth. “I was only laughin’ at me thoughts.” She hesitated. Then, “I ’appened to pass the same remarks this afternoon—an’ got ticked orf for them.”
Uncle Tom shifted in his chair.
“You said your granpa was a common man,” he said uneasily. “You said——”
“I said ’e wasn’t a nurl,” retorted May. “An’ you said it wasn’ for me to speak disrespec’ful of urls ’cause I wasn’ a lady born, an’ you’ld rather ’ave the opinion of a nurl’s daughter than your own’s any day.”