"That is all," I dismissed her curtly. "Ask Griselda to come to me, please."
"Griselda," I began, genial enough to one that is not in awe of me, "I wish you would look over the girl Alicia's wardrobe and get her whatever she needs in the way of shoes and things. Would you mind doing that?"
"Ay, I'll do it, Mr. Randolph. I know some cheap places in Fourteenth Street—"
"Heaven forbid, Griselda," I interrupted her. "I won't have that. There is enough inequality and heart-burning in the world without putting it among children. No, no. Buy the things where you bought the others—for Miss Laura's children."
Griselda laughed hoarsely.
"You'll not begin ruining the lassie with gaudy clothes!" she exclaimed.
"No, Griselda, I'll not. Good clothes have never yet ruined anybody," I gave her as my genuine conviction. "It's the other way about. It's poor clothes eat at the vitals of your self-respect like the fox in the tale of the Spartan lad."
"Have ye gone into the bills for the clothes for the bairns?" she flung at me.
"Not yet," I answered mildly. "But I'll make a walking tour through them one of these days."
"You'll walk backwards when you do, I'm thinking," flung out Griselda, and disappeared, muttering. In Griselda's lexicon extravagance is synonymous with crime and even outtops it. But she is certain to do as I ask.