Miss Berrith put down her fancy-work with a little laugh.
“Each to his trade, Mr. Sands,” said she. “Remember that Darius has been learning to appreciate the honey of poetry, from the moment when I first pointed out the comb.”
“Oh, be reasonable!” I protested, smiling, nevertheless, at her sally. “It isn’t a question of sentiment, is all this, but of what is best for the boy. We have been talking of shoes and of poetry. Well, suppose that I were a cobbler, and you a poet, and both of us offering to teach Darius our trades. Which of us would common-sense suggest that he should stick to?”
“He would probably act the part of cobbler —” began Miss Berrith.
“Exactly!” I was interrupting her, triumphantly, when —
“By sticking to the last,” said she.
There is never much use in an endeavour to combat this kind of frivolity, and so I went upon another tack.
