Secret History Revealed By Lady Peggy O'Malley

								

tactful of him.
Nebuchadnezzar (over the shop he calls himself Franks, the sort of
noncommittal name a Jacobs or Wolfstein likes to hide under) almost
snatched the lace from my hands as I opened the package, shook out its
folds, held it close to his eyes, pawed it, and sniffed. "Humph!" he
grunted ungraciously. "Same old thing as usual. If I've got one of 'em,
I've got a dozen. What did you expect to ask for it?"
"Ten pounds," I announced, as bold as one of those lions that could not
be swung in his shop.
"Ten pounds!" I don't know whether the sound he made was meant for a
snort or a laugh. "Ten grandmothers!"
"Yes," said I, flaring up as if he'd struck a match on me. "That's just
it! Ten of my grandmothers have worn this scarf since it was made, and I
want a pound for each of them."
There was a small funny noise behind me, like a staunched giggle, and I
glanced over my shoulder at the customer, but his back looked most calm
and inoffensive.
"You'll have to take it out in wanting, I'm afraid, my girl," returned
the shopkeeper. "I can offer you thirty bob, no more and no less. That's
all the thing's worth to me."
I tried to pull the scarf out of his hands, but he didn't seem ready to
give it up. "It's worth a great deal more to me," I said. "I'll carry it
away somewhere else, where they know about old lace."
"My word! You're a pert young piece for your size!" remarked the
horrible man; and though I could have boxed his ears (which stood out
exactly like the handles on an urn), I felt my own tingle, because it
was true, what he said: I was a pert young piece. Holding my own at
home, and lots of other things in life (for sixteen years of life seem
fearfully long if they're all you've got behind you), had made me pert,
and I didn't love myself for it, any more than a porcupine can be really
fond of his own quills. I couldn't bear, somehow, that the man with the
nice eyes should be hearing me called a "pert piece," and thinking me
one. Quite a smart repartee came into my head, but a heavy feeling in my
heart kept me from putting it into words; and Nebuchadnezzar went
grunting on: "I know as much about old lace as any man in this street,
if not in town. That's why I don't offer more."
"Give me back my scarf, please," was my only answer, in quite a small
voice.
Still he held on to the lace. "Look here, miss," said he in a changed
tone, "how did you come to get hold of this bit of property, anyhow?
Folks ain't in the habit of sending their children out to dispose o'
their valuables. How can I tell that you ain't nicked this off your
mother or your aunt, or some other dame who doesn't know you're out? If
I was doin' my dooty, I shouldn't wonder if I oughtn't to call in the
police!"
"You horrid, horrid person," I flung at him. "You're trying to frighten
me--to blackmail me--into selling you my lace for thirty shillings, when
maybe it's worth twenty times that. But if any one calls the police, it