“I’m not talkin’ about suits an’ collars an’ overcoats an’ so on——” he said; “I’m talkin’ about handkerchiefs. I simply ask you if——”
“If you want a silk handkerchief, William,” said Mrs. Brown decisively, “you’ll have to buy one.”
“Well!” said William, aghast at the unfairness of the remark—“Well, jus’ fancy you sayin’ that to me when you know I’ve not got any money, when you know I’m not even going to have any money for years an’ years an’ years.”
“You shouldn’t have broken the landing-window,” said Mrs. Brown.
William was pained and disappointed. He had no illusions about his father and elder brother, but he had expected more feeling and sympathy from his mother.
Determinedly, but not very hopefully, he went to his father, who was reading a newspaper in the library.
“You know, father,” said William confidingly, taking his seat upon the newspaper rack, “I think white ones is all right for children—and so on. Wot I mean to say is that when you get older coloured ones is better.”
“Really?” said his father politely.
“Yes,” said William, encouraged. “They wouldn’t show dirt so, either—not like white ones do. An’ they’re bigger, too. They’d be cheaper in the end. They wouldn’t cost so much for laundry—an’ so on.”
“Exactly,” murmured his father, turning over to the next page.