“Your daughter is a beautiful woman, Mrs Dean.”
“Lady,” said the latter correctively; “and so’s yours, only too cold and pale. And now, look here, Denville, as friends—I know what’s what.”
“Really, Mrs Dean, you puzzle me.”
“Hush! Don’t speak so loud. Look here, you’ve done me a thoroughly good turn, and I’m a warm woman, and not ungrateful. As I said before, I know what’s what—Parties ain’t done well for nothing, and expenses comes heavy sometimes. If you want to borrow thirty or forty pounds—there, stuff! you must have your fees. I’m going to put half a dozen five-pound notes under the chany ornament in the back room. You can look round and admire the rooms and get it.”
His spirit rebelled, but his breeches pocket gaped horribly, and wincing in spirit, he rose and went forward to talk to Cora in his society way, starting, in spite of himself, as he heard the chink of china on marble, while, after a time, he began in the most graceful way to gaze through his eyeglass at the pictures and china from Mr Barclay’s ample store, ending by securing the notes in the most nonchalant way.
After letting a sufficient time elapse, the Denvilles took their leave, and Mrs Dean broke out in ecstasy:
“There, Betsy, at last. You’ll be a real lady now.”
“Yes, mother,” said Cora dreamily.
“I say, Denville isn’t a bad one, only he has to be paid.”
“It’s the custom, mother.”