“They are sometimes more interesting,” said the Englishman; “but do you know, I am surprised to hear an American speak in this way. I thought you were all on a level here in a republic.”
“Oh, my lord!” expostulated Stuyvesant, deprecatingly. “You don’t think I would associate with shopkeepers and common tradesmen?”
“I don’t know. A cousin of mine is interested in a wine business in London. He is a younger son with a small fortune, and draws a very tidy income from his city business.”
“But his name doesn’t appear on the sign, I infer.”
“No, I think not. Then you are not in business, Mr. Stuyvesant?”
“No; I inherited an income from my father. It isn’t as large as I could wish, and I have abstained from marrying because I could not maintain the mode of living to which I have been accustomed.”
“You should marry a rich girl.”
“True! I may do so, since your lordship recommends it. In fact, I have in view a young lady whose father was once lord mayor (I beg pardon, mayor) of New York. Her father is worth a million.”
“Pounds?”
“Well, no, dollars. I should have said two hundred thousand pounds.”