“I—don’t call!” she said bluntly. “It would not be—acceptable. I am poor.”
“Oh, so am I! There we can sympathise. Isn’t it dull?” cried Grizel gaily.
Miss Bruce looked at her in silent disclaimer. No one could look into Grizel’s face and doubt the honesty of her words, but Miss Bruce reflected tartly that there were different degrees of poverty! Why, the clothes on the bride’s back this morning must have cost a considerable portion of her own year’s income! The white coat hung in strange and wonderful folds, the outside was severely plain, just a simple, unadorned cloth garment which an ordinary woman might have worn; but as she sat, the fronts had fallen apart, and the spinster gazed with awe upon a gorgeousness of lining such as it had not entered into her brain to conceive. Ivory brocade, shot through with gold; a band of exquisite embroidery where the two fabrics met, cascades of delicate lace. Miss Bruce was fond of coining phrases to express her meaning. She coined one now, “Muffled magnificence!” It seemed an inconceivable thing that any woman could allow such richness to be hidden away beneath a cloth exterior, yet something latent within her applauded the feat. “Muffled magnificence,” she repeated to herself, her gloating eyes taking in each perfection of detail. Her lips twisted in grim realisation of the difference in degrees of poverty, but a quality of sincerity and kindliness in Grizel’s hazel eyes prompted an unwonted confidence. She heard herself saying quite simply and naturally:
“There is something besides poverty, Mrs Beverley! My father was a plumber. Quite in a big way, of course, but still,—he was in trade. He was a very good father; he educated me well and left me enough to live on. I’m grateful to him, but,—you can understand—”
Grizel gave a soft little move of appreciation.
“A good plumber.—A plumber with principles... Oh, you must be proud! I’ve travelled all over the world, but I never heard of such a thing before. All the other plumbers I’ve heard of have brought misery on everyone who knew them... You must certainly come to see me, and tell me all about him, and I’ll call on you too, and see his photograph... Had he a chin beard?”
Miss Bruce’s gratification was merged in stunned surprise.
“Chin—beard?”
“They always have. Haven’t you noticed? If your father hadn’t, that makes him more wonderful still. And where is your house, Miss—”
“Bruce. In Rose Lane. Near the Men’s Institute. A little house with a green porch. You wouldn’t have noticed—”