"The refinement which says 'preserves' instead of 'jam.'"
Then she had one of her sudden repentances.
"I didn't mean that nastily—but of course, you know, where one is in the process of rising one is apt to be slightly ridiculous. There is always a striving, an uneasiness, a lack of repose. To be so far down as to fear no fall, and to be so securely up as to fear no fall, tends to composure of manner. You who have, I suppose, lived always with the 'ups,' and I who consort almost entirely with the 'downs,' know that for a fact. It is an instructive thing to watch the rise of a family. They rise rapidly in Glasgow. In a few years you may see a family ascend from a small villa in Pollokshields and one servant—known as 'the girrl'—to a 'place' in the country and a pew in the nearest Episcopal church; and if this successful man still alludes to a person as a 'party' and to his wife in her presence as 'Mistress So-and-so here,' his feet are well up the ladder. A few years more and he will cut the strings that bind him to his old life: his boys, educated at English schools, will have forgotten the pit from whence they were dug, his daughters will probably have married well, and he is 'county' indeed. But you mustn't think Glasgow is full of funnies, or that I am laughing at the dear place—not that it would care if I did, it can stand a bit of laughing at. I have the most enormous respect for Glasgow people for all they have done, for their tremendous capacity for doing, for their quite perfect taste in things that matter, and I love them for their good nature and 'well-pleasedness.' A very under-sized little man—one whose height might well have been a sore point—said to me once, 'They tell me my grandfather was six-foot-four—he would laugh if he saw me. And he thoroughly enjoyed the joke."
"But tell me," said Arthur, "have you many friends in Glasgow?"
"Heaps, but I haven't much time for seeing them. The winter is so crowded with church-work; then in spring, when things slacken off, I go to London to Aunt Alice; and in summer we are at Etterick. But I do dine out now and again, and sometimes we have little parties. Would you care to meet some people?"
He hastily disclaimed any such desire, and assured her he was more than content with the company he had. "But," he added, "I should like to see more of the church people."
"You shall," Elizabeth promised him.
One o'clock found them again in Sauchiehall Street, and Arthur asked Elizabeth's advice as to the best place for luncheon.
"This is my day," she reminded him. "You will have lunch with me, please. If you'll promise not to be nasty about it, I'll take you to my favourite haunt. It's a draper's shop, but don't let that prejudice you."
He found himself presently in a large sunny room carpeted in soft grey and filled with little tables. The tablecloths were spotless, and the silver and glass shone. Elizabeth led the way to a table in the window and picked up a menu card.