“When he puts people off with what they don’t quite want, for instance?”
“Need he do that?”
“Salesmanship,” said Hoopdriver. “Wouldn’t get a crib if he didn’t.—It’s no good your arguing. It’s not a particularly honest nor a particularly useful trade; it’s not very high up; there’s no freedom and no leisure—seven to eight-thirty every day in the week; don’t leave much edge to live on, does it?—real workmen laugh at us and educated chaps like bank clerks and solicitors’ clerks look down on us. You look respectable outside, and inside you are packed in dormitories like convicts, fed on bread and butter and bullied like slaves. You’re just superior enough to feel that you’re not superior. Without capital there’s no prospects; one draper in a hundred don’t even earn enough to marry on; and if he does marry, his G.V. can just use him to black boots if he likes, and he daren’t put his back up. That’s drapery! And you tell me to be contented. Would you be contented if you was a shop girl?”
She did not answer. She looked at him with distress in her brown eyes, and he remained gloomily in possession of the field.
Presently he spoke. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, and stopped.
She turned her face, resting her cheek on the palm of her hand. There was a light in her eyes that made the expression of them tender. Mr. Hoopdriver had not looked in her face while he had talked. He had regarded the grass, and pointed his remarks with redknuckled hands held open and palms upwards. Now they hung limply over his knees.
“Well?” she said.
“I was thinking it this morning,” said Mr. Hoopdriver.
“Yes?”
“Of course it’s silly.” “Well?”