The father of Miss Mabelle Jones, as mentioned before, earned an honest livelihood by vending tea [115] ]and sugar, wax candles, and such—not to speak of sardines. There were great white letters on his window that asked, for the benefit of humanity, “Who brought down Sydney prices?” and vivid red ones that answered boldly and with generous flourishes, “Why, Thomas Jones of course, the People’s Friend. One pound of fine white sugar given away with every pound of tea.”
The shop was at the corner. The little side-door and window had been given to Miss Jones when she had set up for herself and lengthened her baptismal name by two letters.
Good Mrs. Jones was cutting up carrots for haricot mutton in the back kitchen, when her daughter burst in upon her.
“Go and let that young lady in; say I’ll be down presently—say I’m engaged for a bit,” she said, pulling off as she spoke the housewifely apron that protected the front of her mother’s dress.
But “Bless us, girl” was Mrs. Jones’s rather aggrieved reply; “you always see folks in that dress, and you always let ’em in yourself. This ’arryco won’t be fit for pa if I go and leave it.”
“It isn’t ordinary folks—it’s a real swell; it’s—it’s his sister, the eldest one,” said Miss Jones, in great agitation. “There, she’s knocked again; oh, [116] ]for goodness’ sake be quick, ma! The room’s all in a mess too.”
Mrs. Jones with a sigh set aside her toothsome “’arryco” and proceeded to the door.
“Can I see Miss Jones?” asked the pale young lady on the doorstep.
And “She’ll be down presently; she’s cleanin’ herself,” answered Mrs. Jones, leading the way into Mabelle’s room, and moving a heap of work off a chair.
“Sit down, miss, and I’ll go and ’urry her up. You can be lookin’ at the fashun plates; they’re the latest styles in London”; and she kindly put a heap of coloured supplements, depicting ladies’ fearfully and wonderfully arrayed, at Meg’s elbow.