“Didn’t you supply her husband with that new iron railing for his garden?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did, and it’s a good one.”
“Well, if you sell the husband a garden railing, why shouldn’t I sell the wife a pair of stockings?”
“I don’t know,” he said, with a laugh. “I suppose it’s the nonsensical notion about one kind of labour being degrading, and another ennobling. We’re all simpletons, anyway—we human beings. Where is Berty this evening?”
“Listen,” said Grandma, putting up a hand.
Down in the back yard was a sound of hammering.
Roger leaned over the railing. “What under the sun is she doing?”
“Puttering over those pigeons—making new boxes for them.”
“Who is with her? I see a man’s back.”