Blair nodded.

"Why not?" she asked, astonished.

"Ugly," Blair said, faintly.

"Ugly! What is ugly?"

Blair, without looking up, made a little, swift gesture with his
hand. "This," he said; then suddenly he lifted his head, gave her
a sidewise, shrinking look, and dropped his eyes. The color flew
into Mrs. Maitland's face; with an ejaculation of anger, she got
on her feet. "You are a very foolish and very bad little boy,"
she said; "you don't know what you are talking about. I had meant
to increase your allowance, but now I won't do it. Listen to me;
it is no matter whether a house, or a--a person, is what you call
'ugly.' What matters is whether they are useful. Everything in
the world ought to be useful--like our Works. If I ever hear you
saying you don't like a thing because it's ugly, I shall--I shall
not give you any money at all. Money!" she burst out, suddenly
fluent, "money isn't _pretty_! Dirty scraps of paper, bits
of silver that look like lead--perhaps you call money 'ugly,'
too?"

Her vehemence was a sort of self-defense; it was a subtle
confession that she felt in this little repelling personality the
challenge of an equal; but Blair only gaped at her in childish
confusion; and instantly his mother was herself again. "Clear
out, now; and be a good boy." When she was alone, she sat at her
desk in the dining-room for several minutes without taking up her