“I’m going to post that letter, my dear. Don’t you touch it, mind.”
As she spoke she thrust the note between the leaves, and then walked into the shop with her niece, and placed the book upon a shelf.
“There, if you behave yourself you shall see who buys those poems; but, once more, never a word to a soul.”
“Oh, no, auntie, never,” said the girl, with her big eyes rolling. “But oh, I say, auntie, isn’t it fun?”
“Isn’t what fun?”
“I know,” giggled the girl; “there was a letter in that card-case you sold. I saw you put it there.”
“Well, well, perhaps there was, my dear. I must oblige customers, and the profits on things are so small, and rents so high. We must live, you see. And now mind this: if Mrs Frank Burnett comes, you call me.”
“Couldn’t I sell her that volume of poems, auntie?” said the girl eagerly.
“No, certainly not; and now look here, miss. Don’t you ever pretend to be simple any more.”
“No, auntie,” said the girl, “I won’t;” and she drew her breath thickly and gave a smack with her lips, as if she were tasting something very nice.