“No, she is often in bed—I don’t really think—”
“Airs, probably,” said her companion. “Has been brought up soft. I’d break her of that.”
“She wouldn’t marry you,” said Berty, desperately.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” and Mr. Jimson’s voice sounded angry to the man on the veranda above.
“I tell you she wouldn’t. I’ve heard her just rave against people who don’t do things just as she does. If you ate with your knife, she’d think you were dust beneath her feet.”
The Mayor was silent.
“Why, if you wore carpet slippers in the parlour, or a dressing-gown, or went about the house in your shirt-sleeves, she’d have a fit.”
“And who does all these things?” asked the Mayor, sneeringly.
“You do!” replied Berty, stung into impertinence. “They say you received a delegation of clergymen in your slippers and dressing-gown.”