“And so going to church don’t seem to put me in Miss Flora’s class at all.”
“Still,” observed Bonnie May thoughtfully, “Flora is not one of the Original Songbird Sisters herself.”
“No, but she follows along. And I never could get the hang of the thing at all.”
Bonnie May laughed swiftly, and then cast a cautious eye at the ceiling, and checked herself. “After all,” she said, “we’re not getting at the real trouble, whatever it is. You know the difference between the old families and the—the others, is that the others talk about making money, while the old families talk about spending it. You’re not an old family, probably?”
“Well, I never talk about it, if I am. I like to work. I like to be interested in things that everybody else is interested in. The objection to me, I think, is that my business happens to be groceries. People think of soap, I suppose, and a crate of eggs with here and there a broken one in it. Ugly things, you know.”
Bonnie May shuddered. “Please don’t!” she implored. “You must keep your mind off of it. Your suburban-home idea is nice. But put a soft pedal on the chickens. Think of Chinese lanterns. Lawn-parties, I mean. Talk about al fresco performances of Shakespeare and house-parties. Don’t let anybody think about how you earn money. Let them believe you’ve just got it. Really, it’s not a very nice subject. If the word ‘money’ ever comes up, just yawn and say something about not being able to decide whether you want to spend the summer in the Yellowstone or in the Thousand Islands.”
Mr. Addis shook his head. “No,” he said. “I couldn’t put on airs. You see, I think Miss Flora thinks enough of me as I am, and I couldn’t be something different just to please her mother.”
“Had you thought of the old-fashioned way—of running away?”
Mr. Addis became quite serious. “Miss Flora’s not that kind,” he said promptly. “No, I’ve got to fight it out with—with the mother.”