"We said the other day we wished you would let us be your bankers—it would only be till the machine was done," added Bruce, flushing. He did not say that they and Frances, whose father was the wealthiest man in Fayre, had vainly tried to hit upon a way of making life easier to the girls of whom they were so fond.
Rob shook her head with a dubious smile, and Bruce said, hastily: "Oh, I know you won't! There's always just that difference between a girl's friendship and a boy's. A boy not only will share with his chum—girls do that—but he will take his share of his chum's possessions, and know it does not matter which happened to have more."
"Don't you think there has to be that difference, Bruce?" asked Wythie, in her womanly little way. "You wouldn't like to have a girl accept too much from another." Wythie did not say, "From a boy friend." "Since Rob has said so much I will tell you that you could not be our bankers, for we need too much, and it is too serious. Aunt Azraella, Mrs. Winslow——"
"Who has nothing whatever to do with soothing-sirup, nor sirup, nor soothing of any sort," interrupted Rob.
"Wants us to sell our dear, beautiful old china and pewter and mahogany. But we won't—we can't!" Wythie finished.
"Of course not; I should say not!" ejaculated silent Bartlemy, the artist, with profound conviction.
"It would be like selling 'the ashes of your fathers and the temples of your gods,'" added Basil.
"Yes, and leave us worse off by and by, when we had used the money," added Rob. "But if we don't do that we must mortgage the little grey house."
"That's bad, too," said Bruce.