To this her grandfather made no reply. The returning of money paid for services rendered was, to his commercial mind, too foolish a thing to be even talked about. At the same time, Iris was quite free to manage her own affairs. And then there was that roll of papers in the safe. Why, what matter if she sent away all her pupils? He changed the subject.
"Iris, my dear," he said, "about this other world, where the people amuse themselves; the world which lives in the squares and in the big houses on the Chelsea Embankment here, you know—how should you like, just for a change, to belong to that world and have no work to do?"
"I don't know," she replied carelessly, because the question did not interest her.
"You would have to leave me, of course. You would sever your connection, as they say, with the shop."
"Please, don't let us talk nonsense, grandfather."
"You would have to be ashamed, perhaps, of ever having taught for your living."
"Now that I never should be—never, not if they made me a duchess."
"You would go dressed in silk and velvet. My dear, I should like to see you dressed up just for once, as we have seen them at the theater."
"Well, I should like one velvet dress in my life. Only one. And it should be crimson—a beautiful, deep, dark crimson."
"Very good. And you would drive in a carriage instead of an omnibus; you would sit in the stalls instead of the upper circle; you would give quantities of money to poor people; and you would buy as many second hand books as you pleased. There are rich people, I believe, ostentatious people, who buy new books. But you, my dear, have been better brought up. No books are worth buying till they have stood the criticism of a whole generation at least. Never buy new books, my dear."