"Little Miss Deleah thinks a mighty lot of herself, seated up there in
state."
He should not think so, Gibbon said. "What is she but a servant there? She
was a far greater lady, to my thinking, when she sat in the room over her
mother's shop."
"It's Bessie that should ride in her carriage," Mr. Boult declared.
"Perhaps she will," said Gibbon, and looked at his partner, who met the
other's eyes hardily.
"If she does," he said with sudden bluster, "the fool that owns the
carriage is a ruined man. Mark my words. Extravagant, idle young woman.
Die in the workhouse--that's what Bessie Day will do. Look here, Gibbon;
you know how things are; you know all I've done for them. I could put up
the shutters of the shop to-morrow, and they could not help theirselves.
Bessie knows it too. I have not made a secret of these things. She knows I
hold them in the hollow of my hand. Yet to hear her cheek me! The daring
of it! Gibbon," he touched the younger man's shoulder with the stiff
finger of his thick hand, "I used to think that you--eh?"
"No," said Gibbon, with decision.
"Nice little place all ready--when you've spent a few pounds more--?"
"No, thank you."
"Is that so?" Boult said, and pressed his lips together, nodding his head
and seeming to take time to turn the information over in his mind.
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