“It _isn’t_ all. It isn’t a millionth part!” she replied with some
sharpness. “It’s immense fun”—she would tantalise him. Then as she had
heard Mrs. Jordan say, and as the ladies at Cocker’s even sometimes
wired, “It’s quite too dreadful!” She could fully feel how it was Mr.
Mudge’s propriety, which was extreme—he had a horror of coarseness and
attended a Wesleyan chapel—that prevented his asking for details. But
she gave him some of the more innocuous in spite of himself, especially
putting before him how, at Simpkin’s and Ladle’s, they all made the
money fly. That was indeed what he liked to hear: the connexion was not
direct, but one was somehow more in the right place where the money was
flying than where it was simply and meagrely nesting. The air felt that
stir, he had to acknowledge, much less at Chalk Farm than in the
district in which his beloved so oddly enjoyed her footing. She gave
him, she could see, a restless sense that these might be familiarities
not to be sacrificed; germs, possibilities, faint foreshowings—heaven
knew what—of the initiation it would prove profitable to have arrived
at when in the fulness of time he should have his own shop in some such
paradise. What really touched him—that was discernible—was that she
could feed him with so much mere vividness of reminder, keep before
him, as by the play of a fan, the very wind of the swift bank-notes and
the charm of the existence of a class that Providence had raised up to
be the blessing of grocers. He liked to think that the class was there,
that it was always there, and that she contributed in her slight but
appreciable degree to keep it up to the mark. He couldn’t have
formulated his theory of the matter, but the exuberance of the
aristocracy was the advantage of trade, and everything was knit
together in a richness of pattern that it was good to follow with one’s
finger-tips. It was a comfort to him to be thus assured that there were
no symptoms of a drop. What did the sounder, as she called it, nimbly
worked, do but keep the ball going?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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