“N-no, b-but I sha’n’t give up the work. I gave up acting for you, but I
won’t my painting. I’ve _got_ to work!”
Reggie drew me down to the sofa beside him.
“Now, old girl, listen to me. I’ll not stop your working for this
Count, but I want you to know that it’s because I love you. I want my
wife to be able to hold her head up with the best in the land, and none
of our family--none of our women folk--have ever worked. As far as that
goes, jolly few of the men have. I never heard of such a thing in our
family.”
“But there’s no disgrace in working. Poor people have to do it,” I
protested. “Only snobs and fools are ashamed of it. Look at those
Sinclair girls. They were all too proud to work, and their brother had
to support them for years, and all the time he was in love with Ivy Lee
and kept her waiting and waiting, and then she fell in love with that
doctor and ran away and married him, and when Will Sinclair heard about
it, he went into his room and shot himself dead. And it was all because
of those big, strong, lazy sisters and vain, proud old mother, who were
always talking about their noble family. All of us girls have got to
work. Do you think we want poor old papa to kill himself working for us
big, healthy young animals just because we happen to be girls instead of
boys?”
Reggie said stubbornly:
“Nevertheless, it’s not done by nice people, Marion. It’s not proper,
you know.”