“Oh, nothing long and clever like that.”
“You grow more interesting. Having designs upon us, you doubtless wish my advice.”
“No,” she answered softly: “I’ve done it already.”
“Rash and precipitate adventuress! What have you done already?”
“Started my designs. I’ve rented the basement of Number 26.”
“Are you a rag-picker in disguise?”
“I’m going to start a coffee cellar. I was thinking of calling it ‘The Coffee Pot.’ What do you think?”
“So you do wish my advice. I will give it to you. Do you see that plumber’s shop next to the corner saloon?” I pointed to the Avenue whose ceaseless stream of humanity flows past Our Square without ever sweeping us into its current. “That was once a tea-shop. It was started by a dear little, prim little old maiden lady. The saloon was run by Tough Bill Manigan. The little old lady had a dainty sign painted and hung it up outside her place, ‘The Teacup.’ Tough Bill took a board and painted a sign and hung it up outside his place; ‘The Hiccup.’ The dear little, prim little old maiden lady took down her sign and went away. Yet there are those who say that competition is the life of trade.”
“Is there a moral to your story, Mr. Dominie?”
“Take it or leave it,” said I amiably.