“And—and—does Harry wear an apron—and—and serve twopenny dinners?”
“No, no! The concern’s too big for that,” Mr. Whittaker replied. “He has never done anything of that kind. It’s a regular going concern—they employ hundreds of hands, make all their own sausages, make their own beef, mutton, veal, pork and ham pies, cook their own potatoes and green vegetables. They’ve got about thirty of these shops—Bundaby’s Eating Houses they are called. They must be coining money.”
“My daughter married to a sausage-maker!” said Regina in a bewildered tone.
“There’s nothing in that,” Alfred Whittaker rejoined; “there’s nothing in that, my dear girl, provided he makes his sausages good and wholesome and enough of ’em. But I was afraid it would be a bit of a blow to you.”
“My daughter—my daughter married to a sausage-maker!” Regina repeated.
“Now, come, come, Queenie, you mustn’t—you mustn’t—hang it all, I don’t know what you mustn’t do! The girl fancies the boy, and he has plenty of money. He’s a nice, gentlemanly chap, and she’ll live in style. He’s going to have a motor car; she’ll live in far better style than we’ve ever done.”
“But you are not a sausage-maker,” said Regina. “Alfie, Alfie, I’m afraid I couldn’t have married you if you had been a sausage-maker.”
The word “sausage” seemed positively to stick in Regina’s throat.
“Queenie,” said Alfred, “you know perfectly well that what I was had nothing to do with your feelings towards me. If I had been a crossing-sweeper—”