“I am waiting, go on; father made a mesalliance, I suppose.”
“Yes, that’s about the fact of the case,” Mr. Beresford replied, feeling compelled to speak out. “Your mother’s family did not stand as high socially as your father’s. They were poor, while Mr. Hetherton, your grandfather, was rich, and that makes a difference, you know.”
“No, I didn’t,” she replied. “I thought nothing made a difference in America, if you behaved yourself. But go on. How poor were they? Did they beg? What did they do?”
The look in her eyes brought the answer promptly:
“Your grandfather built chimneys and laid cellar walls.”
“Well, that’s dirty, sticky, nasty work, but no disgrace—people must have chimneys and cellar walls, and I’ve no doubt he built them well. What did she do—grandmother, I mean? Was she a bar-maid?”
She had almost hit it, but not quite, and Mr. Beresford replied:
“She sold gingerbread and beer; kept a kind of baker’s shop.”
Reinette drew a quick, gasping breath, put the wet napkin again on her head without wringing it at all, and said:
“Yes, I see—I understand. They were unfortunate enough to be born poor; they did what they could to get their living; but that is nothing against them; that is no reason why you should despise them. They are mine, and I won’t have it, I say.”