"No, he would not," said Tom with conviction; "and what is more, he ought not. He would never cease to regret his shattered hopes for you--which, remember, you would have shattered--and your spoilt life." "But your life is not spoilt?" she said wistfully, unable to resign her last hope. "How can you tell?" he said, with a slight sharpness in his accent. Then he added quickly, "No, for I am a born shopkeeper in another sense than because I am one of a nation of shopkeepers." He gave himself a reassuring shake, and resumed briskly--"I crave leave to say, Miss May, that I actually enjoy making up accounts, turning over samples, and giving orders. Sometimes I hit on a good idea which the commercial world acknowledges, and then I am as proud as if I had unearthed an ancient manuscript, or found the philosopher's stone. I pulled a fellow through a difficulty the other day, and it felt like taking part in an exciting fight. I have speculated occasionally when I was fishing--paying myself a huge compliment, no doubt--whether old Izaak Walton felt like me about trade." "Was he in trade?" inquired May, with some surprise. "I know he wrote _The Complete Angler_, and was a friend of Dr. Donne's and George Herbert's, and is very much thought of to this day." "Deservedly," said Tom Robinson emphatically. "Yes, I am proud to say, he was a hosier to begin with, and a linen-draper to end with--well-to-do in both lines. They say his first wife, whom he married while he was still in business, was a niece of the Archbishop of Canterbury of the day, and his second wife, whom he married after he had retired to live on his earnings, was a half-sister of good Bishop Ken's; but I do not pretend to vouch for the truth of these statements. Now, about your father. I cannot do what you ask--I cannot in conscience. Will you ever forgive me, 'little May'--that is what your father and mother and your sisters call you sometimes to this day, ain't it? and it is what I should have called you if I had been--your uncle say? Shall we be no longer friends?" he demanded ruefully. "Of course we shall," said May, with a suspicion of petulance. "You are not bound to do what I bid you--I never thought that; and you are father and mother's friend--how could I help being your friend?" "Don't try to help it," he charged her.