“I hope you’re not hoarding it,” proceeded Miss Bell. “It’s not wise-like—”
“Nor Dyce-like either,” said Miss Ailie.
“There’s many a poor body in the town this winter that’s needful.”
“I daresay,” said Daniel Dyce coldly. “The poor we have always with us. The thing, they tell me, is decreed by Providence.”
“But Providence is not aye looking,” said Bell. “If that’s what you’re frightened for, I’ll be your almoner.”
“It’s their own blame, you may be sure, if they’re poor. Improvidence and—and drink. I’ll warrant they have their glass of ale every Saturday. What’s ale? Is there any moral elevation in it? Its nutritive quality, I believe, is less than the tenth part of a penny bap.”
“Oh, but the poor creatures!” sighed Miss Bell.
“Possibly,” said Dan Dyce, “but every man must look after himself; and as you say, many a man well off has come down in the world. We should take no risks. I had Black the baker at me yesterday for £20 in loan to tide over some trouble with his flour merchant and pay an account to Miss Minto.”
“A decent man, with a wife and seven children,” said Miss Bell.
“Decent or not, he’ll not be coming back borrowing from me in a hurry. I set him off with a flea in his lug.”