“I beg your pardon?”
“I and a man named M’Gourley are in business.”
“Two Scotchmen?” sneered Jane.
“Two Scotchmen.”
“And what are you selling—paper umbrellas?”
“Yes; and hats and kakemonos, and every other sort of a mono that the European trade will swallow. We export them.”
“Then you’re a merchant, not a shopman,” said Jane in a half-angry, half-relieved voice. “I wish you would not give me these sort of horrible shocks. I thought at first you were serving in some place behind the counter—”
“Oh, I don’t want to make money in business much; I do it more for interest and to have an object in life. I’m well off; my father’s money all came to me—he died well off.”
“And wasn’t it queer?” said Jane. “George is awfully rich, you know; well, directly I was married, old Aunt Keziah died, and every penny of her money came to me. Fifty thousand. No, forty-eight thousand, four hundred and eighty-two pounds, ten and sixpence. It seemed so sweet, the little sixpence following at the end. I sent for it, and had a hole drilled through it, and I always wear it on this bangle—look!”