“I think you’re going to make a trip to-morrow to the nearest large town, and stock up,” she smiled.
“Am I going alone?”
She laughed at me. “No, you helpless child, mamma will go with you.”
So the next morning we set off early, provided with a list of necessary articles compiled with Mrs. Bert’s assistance. We tramped over to Bentford and took the train there for a city some seventeen miles away, which we reached about half-past eight. It was a clean, neat little city, with fine old trees on the residence streets, and prosperous, well-stocked shops. The girl was dressed jauntily in blue, and I wore my last year’s best suit and a hat and collar. I sniffed the city smell, and declared, “Rather nice, just for a contrast. I’ve got an all-dressed-up-in-my-best feeling. Have you?”
“It is a lark,” she smiled. “I never saw a city from the country point of view before. It seems queer to me–as if I didn’t belong in it.”
“You don’t,” said I; “you belong in the country.”
She said nothing, but led me into a shop. It was a household-goods shop, and here we looked at dishes first. The woman who waited on us assumed a motherly air. It began to dawn upon me that she thought we were stocking our little prospective home. I shot a covert glance at the girl. Her eyes were twinkling, her colour high. I said nothing, but pointed to the dinner set I desired.
She laughed. “That’s Royal Worcester,” she said.
“What of it? I like it.”
“Well, then, look at it all you can now,” she answered, “for you can’t have it.”