om the parish, but they stopped it because they said I ought to
go into the 'Ouse.'"
She looked at Betty with a momentarily anxious smile.
"P'raps you don't quite understand, miss," she said. "It'll seem like
nothin' to you--a place like this."
"It doesn't," Betty answered, smiling bravely back into the old eyes,
though she felt a slight fulness of the throat. "I understand all about
it."
It is possible that old Mrs. Welden was a little taken aback by an
attitude which, satisfactory to her own prejudices though it might be,
was, taken in connection with fixed customs, a trifle unnatural.
"You don't mind me not wantin' to go?" she said.
"No," was the answer, "not at all."
Betty began to ask questions. How much tea, sugar, soap, candles, bread,
butter, bacon, could Mrs. Welden use in a week? It was not very easy to
find out the exact quantities, as Mrs. Welden's estimates of such things
had been based, during her entire existence, upon calculation as to how
little, not how much she could use.
When Betty suggested a pound of tea, a half pound--the old woman smiled
at the innocent ignorance the suggestion of such reckless profusion
implied.
"Oh, no! Bless you, miss, no! I couldn't never do away with it. A
quarter, miss--that'd be plenty--a quarter."
Mrs. Welden's idea of "the best," was that at two shillings a pound.
Quarter of a pound would cost sixpence (twelve cents, thought Betty).
A pound of sugar would be twopence, Mrs. Welden would use half a pound
(the riotous extravagance of two cents). Half a pound of butter, "Good
tub butter, miss," would be ten pence three farthings a pound. Soap,
candles, bacon, bread, coal, wood, in the quantities required by Mrs.
Welden, might, with the addition of rent, amount to the dizzying height
of eight or ten shillings.
"With careful extravagance," Betty mentally summed up, "I might spend
almost two dollars a week in surrounding her with a riot of luxury."
She made a list of the things, and added some extras as an idea of her
own. Life had not afforded her this kind of thing before, she realised.
She felt for the first time the joy of reckless extravagance, and
thrilled with the excitement of it.
"You need not think of Brexley Union any more," she said, when she,
having risen to go, stood at the cottage door with old Mrs. Welden.
"The things I have written down here shall be sent to you every Saturday
night. I will pay your rent."
"Miss--miss!" Mrs. Weld
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