But, as I told the girls in the beginning:
"'The hand of Douglas is his own, and never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as--the mushroom aristocracy of Bank Street--clasp!'
"No sign-painter's daughter nor bookkeeper's daughter, whichever she
may be, on the programme with me, thank you. If there is, I'll not
sing. That's all there is about it."
"Molly Glendenning, you're a snob! The worst sort!" replied Hester,
but she laughed as she said it, and in a moment they were out of
hearing. Several minutes later they passed the door again on their way
down-stairs.
Mary Lee sat staring at the paper before her with dazed, tear-blinded
eyes, as bit by bit her innocent little air-castle crumbled into
nothingness. Then her glance fell on the words she had written, and
laying her face down on them she began to sob. "Dear old father," she
whispered, brokenly. "I asked them for bread and they gave me a stone.
And it's because you have to work. They despise you for that, you dear
old daddykins, with your high ideals and knightly notions of honour.
Oh, how can they be so snobbish and blind! I'll not stay another day
under the same roof with such heartless people!"
Wiping her eyes, she went slowly down-stairs to look for Travis, but
the porch and halls were deserted. Every one must have gone over to
the Inn, she thought, as she heard the notes of the violins stealing
out on the night air.
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