Mrs. Greggory gave a low cry.
“But I do—that is, I must. Mr. Harlow says that it is valuable, and that it will bring in money; and we need—money.” She threw a quick glance toward the hall door, though she did not pause in her remarks. “I can't do much at work that pays. I sew”—she nodded toward the machine by the window—“but with only one foot to make it go—You see, the other is—is inclined to shirk a little,” she finished with a wistful whimsicality.
Billy turned away sharply. There was a lump in her throat and a smart in her eyes. She was conscious suddenly of a fierce anger against—she did not know what, exactly; but she fancied it was against the teapot, or against Uncle William for wanting the teapot, or for not wanting it—if he did not buy it.
“And so you see, I do very much wish to sell.”
Mrs. Greggory said then. “Perhaps you will tell me what it would be worth to you,” she concluded tremulously.
The collector's eyes glowed. He picked up the teapot with careful rapture and examined it. Then he turned to the tray. After a moment he spoke.
“I have only one other in my collection as rare,” he said. “I paid a hundred dollars for that. I shall be glad to give you the same for this, madam.”
Mrs. Greggory started visibly.
“A hundred dollars? So much as that?” she cried almost joyously. “Why, nothing else that we've had has brought—Of course, if it's worth that to you—” She paused suddenly. A quick step had sounded in the hall outside. The next moment the door flew open and a young woman, who looked to be about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, burst into the room.
“Mother, only think, I've—” She stopped, and drew back a little. Her startled eyes went from one face to another, then dropped to the Lowestoft teapot in the man's hands. Her expression changed at once. She shut the door quickly and hurried forward.