“I wish your mother’s son were,” answered Basil, without looking up from the letter he wrote.
“D’you know what Jimmie says you are?”
“I don’t vastly care, but if it pleases you very much you may tell me.”
She shot at him an angry glance, but did not answer. Then Basil got up, and going to her, placed his hands on her shoulders. Making his tone very gentle, he explained that it was really not his fault if he did not care for her people. Could she not resign herself to the fact, and make the best of it? Surely it would be better than to make themselves miserable. But Jenny, refusing the offer of reconciliation, turned away.
“You don’t think they’re good enough for you to associate with because they’re not in swell positions.”
“I don’t in the least object to their being grocers and haberdashers,” he answered, with a flush of annoyance. “I only wish they’d sell us things at cost price.”
“Jimmie isn’t a grocer or a haberdasher. He’s an auctioneers clerk.”
“I humbly apologize. I thought he was a grocer, because last time he did us the honour of calling he asked how much a pound we paid for our tea, and offered to sell us some at the same price. But then he also offered to insure our house against fire, and to sell me a gold-mine in Australia.”
“Well, it’s better to make a bit as best one can than to moon around like you do.”
“Really, even to please you I’m afraid I can’t go about with little samples of tea in my pocket, and sell my friends a pound or two when I call upon them. Besides, I don’t believe they’d ever pay me.”