“I’m not talkin’ about rats,” said William. “I’m talkin’ about handkerchiefs.”
“Oh—handkerchiefs! White ones are far the best. They launder properly. They come out a good colour—at least yours don’t, but that’s because you get them so black—but there’s nothing better than white linen.”
“Pers’nally,” said William with a judicial air, “I think silk’s better than linen an’ white’s so tirin’ to look at. I think a kind of colour’s better for your eyes. My eyes do ache a bit sometimes. I think it’s prob’ly with keep lookin’ at white handkerchiefs.”
“Don’t be silly, William. I’m not going to buy you silk handkerchiefs to get covered with mud and ink and coal as yours do.”
Mrs. Brown calmly cut off her darning wool as she spoke, and took another sock from the pile by her chair. William sighed.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do those things with a silk one,” he said earnestly. “It’s only because they’re cotton ones I do those things.”
“Linen,” corrected Mrs. Brown.
“Linen an’ cotton’s the same,” said William, “it’s not silk. I jus’ want a silk one with colours an’ so on, that’s all. That’s all I want. It’s not much. Just a silk handkerchief with colours. Surely——”
“I’m not going to buy you another thing, William,” said Mrs. Brown firmly. “I had to get you a new suit and new collars only last month, and your overcoat’s dreadful, because you will crawl through the ditch in it——”
William resented this cowardly change of attack.