“But is it worth it all?” I suggested. “Surely you have enough?”
“It means power, Paul.” He slapped his trousers pocket, making the handful of gold and silver he always carried there jingle musically. “It is this that rules the world. My children shall be big pots, hobnob with kings and princes, slap them on the back and call them by their Christian names, be kings themselves—why not? It's happened before. My children, the children of old Noel Hasluck, son of a Whitechapel butcher! Here's my pedigree!” Again be slapped his tuneful pocket. “It's an older one than theirs! It's coming into its own at last! It's money—we men of money—that are the true kings now. It's our family that rules the world—the great money family; I mean to be its head.”
The blaze died out, leaving the room almost in darkness, and for awhile we sat in silence.
“Quiet, isn't it?” said old Hasluck, raising his head.
The settling of the falling embers was the only sound about us.
“Guess we'll always be like this, now,” continued old Hasluck. “Old woman goes to bed, you see, immediately after dinner. It used to be different when she was about. Somehow, the house and the lackeys and all the rest of it seemed to be a more natural sort of thing when she was the centre of it. It frightens the old woman now she's gone. She likes to get away from it. Poor old Susan! A little country inn with herself as landlady and me fussing about behind the bar; that was always her ambition, poor old girl!”
“You will be visiting them,” I suggested, “and they will be coming to stop with you.”
He shook his head. “They won't want me, and it isn't my game to hamper them. I never mix out of my class. I've always had sense enough for that.”
I laughed, wishing to cheer him, though I knew he was right. “Surely your daughter belongs to your own class,” I replied.
“Do you think so?” he asked, with a grin. “That's not a pretty compliment to her. She was my child when she used to cling round my neck, while I made the sausages, calling me her dear old pig. It didn't trouble her then that I dropped my aitches and had a greasy skin. I was a Whitechapel butcher, and she was a Whitechapel brat. I could have kept her if I'd liked, but I was set upon making a lady of her, and I did it. But I lost my child. Every time she came back from school I could see she despised me a little more. I'm not blaming her; how could she help it? I was making a lady of her, teaching her to do it; though there were moments when I almost hated her, felt tempted to snatch her back to me, drag her down again to my level, make her my child again, before it was too late. Oh, it wasn't all unselfishness; I could have done it. She would have remained my class then, would have married my class, and her children would have been my class. I didn't want that. Everything's got to be paid for. I got what I asked for; I'm not grumbling at the price. But it ain't cheap.”