our fortunes were made. Took me out to the Ho'born Restaurant, George,—dinner, and we had champagne, stuff that blows up the back of your nose and makes you go So, and he said at last he'd got things worthy of me—and we moved here next day. It's a swell house, George. Three pounds a week for the rooms. And he says the Business'll stand it."
She looked at me doubtfully.
"Either do that or smash," I said profoundly.
We discussed the question for a moment mutely with our eyes. My aunt slapped the pile of books from Mudie's.
"I've been having such a Go of reading, George. You never did!"
"What do you think of the business?" I asked.
"Well, they've let him have money," she said, and thought and raised her eyebrows.
"It's been a time," she went on. "The flapping about! Me sidding doing nothing and him on the go like a rocket. He's done wonders. But he wants you, George—he wants you. Sometimes he's full of hope—talks of when we're going to have a carriage and be in society—makes it seem so natural and topsy-turvy, I hardly know whether my old heels aren't up here listening to him, and my old head on the floor. . . . Then he gets depressed. Says he wants restraint. Says he can make a splash but can't keep on. Says if you don't come in everything will smash But you are coming in?"
She paused and looked at me.
"Well"
"You don't say you won't come in!"
"But look here, aunt," I said, "do you understand quite? . . . It's a quack medicine. It's trash."
