In an interregnum of peace between the going and coming of customers Mrs.
Day moaned to Deleah over the grievous subject of Franky's deterioration.
"He even brushes his hair, and wears his cap, in the fashion of that
dreadful Willy Spratt. Being so young he does not stand a chance. He must
grow into just a common little boy."
"Never, mama!" Deleah, the unfailing comforter, declared. "Why, Franky
looks like a creature of a different mould from Willy Spratt. Franky, with
that dear little nose of his, is distinctly aristocratic. Don't laugh! He
is indeed. You and he are, you know; and any one can see it."
"Nonsense, my dear," the mother said, but smiled and was comforted on that
score. "It is inevitable, I suppose," she went on, "that we fall into the
way of speech of those around us. But it vexes me. Have you noticed that
even Bessie habitually speaks of Mr. Gibbon now without the 'Mr.'?
'Gibbon' said this or 'Gibbon' did that. I don't like to mention it to
her, but it offends my ear."
"I wouldn't say anything," Deleah counselled. "We know that Bessie is--so
very easily upset."
"Poor Bessie!" the mother said. Both of them had a vision of Bessie
drumming her heels on the floor in the hysterics into which a few
thwarting words would throw her.
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