“You think so, do you?” said Martin, giving her a keen glance.
“Of course I do,” replied Maggie.
Martin gazed at her from head to foot. She was plain. He rather liked her for that. He admired her, too, for, as he expressed it, standing up to him. His dear Little-sing would never stand up to him. But this girl was not the least like her mother. She had a lot of character; Little-sing had none. 90
“You’d make an admirable accountant, Popsy,” he said. “How would you like to take that post by-and-by in my shop?”
Maggie was about to reply that nothing would induce her to accept such a position, when a quick thought darted through her mind. She could scarcely hope to make anything of her mother, for, alack and alas! Mrs. Howland was one of those weak characters who slip away from you even as you try to grasp them. But Martin, with his terrible vulgarity and awful pleasantry, was at least fairly strong.
“Mr. Martin,” said Maggie then, “instead of going in to breakfast with mother, will you take me to some restaurant and give me a good meal, and let me talk to you?”
“Well, now,” said Martin, chuckling, “you are a girl! You have cheek! I am not a man to waste my money, and breakfast with Little-sing won’t cost me anything.”
“But under the circumstances you will waste a little money in order to oblige me?” said Maggie.
“There now, I admire your cheek. So be it. You don’t deserve anything from me, for a ruder ’ittle dirl than you were yesterday to poor Bo-peep could not have been found in the length and breadth of England.”
“You could scarcely expect me to be pleased, sir. The news was broken to me very suddenly, and I was tired after my long journey, too.”