“It’s your pride, that’s what it is. When she might marry a decent, honest, true-hearted lad like Tom, who’s worth fifty Richard Glaires—an insignificant, stuck-up dandy.”
“Don’t you abuse him whose bread you eat,” said Joe.
“I don’t,” said Mrs Banks. “It’s his mother’s and not his. I believe he soon wouldn’t have a bit for himself, if it wasn’t for you keeping his business together. Always sporting and gambling, and fooling away his money.”
“Well, if I keep it together, it’s for our bairn, isn’t it?” said Joe.
“And he’s no better than he should be.”
“You let him alone,” said Joe, stoutly. “All young men are a bit wild ’fore they’re married. I was for one.”
“It’s a big story, Joe,” said Mrs Banks, indignantly. “You wasn’t, or I shouldn’t ha’ had you.”
Joe winked at the clock again, and laughed a little inside as he unbuttoned another button of his vest—the second beginning at the top—to keep count how many cups of tea he had had.
“It’s my opinion,” said Mrs Banks, “that—”
“Howd thee tongue, wilt ta?” cried Joe. “Here’s the lass.”