Mima laughed through her tears. The strength of her first grief had passed, and she was viewing her situation with a whimsical enjoyment of its humorous points.
"I don't know," she went on, "it seems to me that it's only in stories themselves that destitute young Southern girls get on and make fame and fortune with their pens. I'm sure I couldn't."
"Of course you couldn't. Whut else do you 'spect? Whut you know 'bout mekin' a fortune? Ain't you a Ha'ison? De Ha'isons nevah was no buyin' an' sellin', mekin' an' tradin' fambly. Dey was gent'men an' ladies f'om de ve'y fus' beginnin'."
"Oh what a pity one cannot sell one's quality for daily bread, or trade off one's blue blood for black coffee."
"Miss Mime, is you out o' yo' haid?" asked Mammy Peggy in disgust and horror.
"No, I'm not, Mammy Peggy, but I do wish that I could traffic in some of my too numerous and too genteel ancestors instead of being compelled to dispose of my ancestral home and be turned out into the street like a pauper."
"Heish, honey, heish, I can' stan' to hyeah you talk dat-away. I's so'y to see dee ol' place go, but you got to go out of it wid yo' haid up, jes' ez ef you was gwine away fo' a visit an' could come back w'en evah you wanted to."
"I shall slink out of it like a cur. I can't meet the eyes of the new owner; I shall hate him."
"W'y, Miss Mime, whaih's yo' pride? Whaih's yo' Ha'ison pride?"
"Gone, gone with the deed of this house and its furniture. Gone with the money I paid for the new cottage and its cheap chairs."