might be said, inter-related, and that the more people had the more they
wanted to have. The more flirtations, as he might roughly express it,
the more cheese and pickles. He had even in his own small way been dimly
struck with the linked sweetness connecting the tender passion with cheap
champagne, or perhaps the other way round. What he would have liked to
say had he been able to work out his thought to the end was: "I see, I
see. Lash them up then, lead them on, keep them going: some of it can't
help, some time, coming _our_ way." Yet he was troubled by the suspicion
of subtleties on his companion's part that spoiled the straight view. He
couldn't understand people's hating what they liked or liking what they
hated; above all it hurt him somewhere--for he had his private
delicacies--to see anything _but_ money made out of his betters. To be
too enquiring, or in any other way too free, at the expense of the gentry
was vaguely wrong; the only thing that was distinctly right was to be
prosperous at any price. Wasn't it just because they were up there aloft
that they were lucrative? He concluded at any rate by saying to his
young friend: "If it's improper for you to remain at Cocker's, then that
falls in exactly with the other reasons I've put before you for your
removal."

"Improper?"--her smile became a prolonged boldness. "My dear boy,
there's no one like you!"

"I dare say," he laughed; "but that doesn't help the question."

"Well," she returned, "I can't give up my friends. I'm making even more
than Mrs. Jordan."

Mr. Mudge considered. "How much is _she_ making?"