"Very likely it's true," said Ann, a little wistfully.
"What's true?"
"About all that money coming."
Kipps meditated. "I don't see why it shouldn't be," he decided, and handed Ann a piece of bread on the tip of his knife.
"But we'll keep on the shop," he said after an interval for further reflection, "all the same.… I 'aven't much trust in money after the things we've seen."
§7
That was two years ago, and as the whole world knows, the "Pestered Butterfly" is running still. It was true. It has made the fortune of a once declining little theatre in the Strand, night after night the great beetle scene draws happy tears from a house packed to repletion, and Kipps—for all that Chitterlow is not what one might call a business man—is almost as rich as he was in the beginning. People in Australia, people in Lancashire, Scotland, Ireland, in New Orleans, in Jamaica, in New York and Montreal, have crowded through doorways to Kipps' enrichment, lured by the hitherto unsuspected humours of the entomological drama. Wealth rises like an exhalation all over our little planet, and condenses, or at least some of it does, in the pockets of Kipps.
"It's rum," said Kipps.
He sat in the little kitchen out behind the bookshop and philosophised and smiled, while Ann gave
