Haberdasher.
What's the matter with that word? If it irked Thomas it irked Kitty no less. It is a part of youth to crave for high-sounding names and occupations. It is in the mother's milk they feed on. Mothers dream of their babes growing up into presidents or at least ambassadors, if sons; titles and brilliant literary salons, if daughters. What living mother would harbor a dream of a clerkship in a haberdasher's shop? Perish the thought! Myself for years was told that I had as good a chance as anybody of being president of the United States; a far better chance than many, being as I was my mother's son.
Irish blood and romance will always be mysteriously intertwined. Haberdasher did not fit in anywhere with Kitty's projects; it was off-key, a jarring note. Whoever heard of a haberdasher's clerk reading Morte d'Arthur and writing sonnets? She was reasonably certain that while Thomas had jotted it down in scornful self-flagellation, it occupied a place somewhere in his past.
"They turne out ther trashe And shew ther haberdashe, Ther pylde pedlarye."
There's no romance in collars and cuffs and ties and suspenders.
CHAPTER XXI
Meanwhile Killigrew arrived in New York, went to the bank and deposited Kitty's opal, and sought his office.
"There's a Mr. Haggerty in your office, Mr. Killigrew. I told him to wait."
"Haggerty, the detective?"