She brought the tea-rose to earth with a bang, and stood like a soldier at attention.
"Beg pardon, mum. Didn't know you was there, or I wouldn't have done it. But I was so happy at thinkin' how pleased you would be in seein' me in these here shoes, as you have took such a dislike to the others."
"But I'm not pleased," I rejoined. "I could not think of permit—of approving of your wearing wool-work slippers for answering the front-door bell."
"It never rings, mum."
"It will when callers begin to arrive; and when you receive your next month's wages I shall be glad, Amelia, if you will buy a pair of cloth flat-heeled boots or shoes. Kid are expensive, but cloth is beautifully cheap."
"You mentioned them before, mum. P'r'aps you'll remember. I never have and never could wear black cloth shoes. It would be like walkin' about with a pair of funerals on your feet. They'd depress a nigger minstrel. Anything else to meet you. White tennis shoes? They're soft and don't squeak."
"No, Amelia," I said wearily, "white tennis shoes would be worse than the wool-work. We'll dismiss the subject. It is said that a man can get accustomed even to being hanged. I may learn to like your shoes in time, and even regard their noisiness as music."
And I went back to the drawing-room and closed the door. The subject was finished, and so Amelia continues to squeak.