But I can try to be gentle and manly, which is
better. You and I come from the same class, Joan; from the people. The only
difference is that my father happened to make a huge fortune in London.
Guess what he sold?"
"I dunnaw."
"Fish--just plaice and flounders and herrings and so forth. He sold them by
tens of thousands. Your father sells them too. But what d'you think was the
difference? Why, your father is an honest man; mine wasn't. The fishermen
sold their fish, after they had had the trouble and danger of catching
them, to my father; and then my father sold them again to the public; and
the fishermen got too little and the public paid too much, and so--I'm a
very rich man to-day--the son of a thief."
"Mister Jan!"
"Nobody ever called him a thief but me. He was a great star in this same
polite society I speak of. He fed hundreds of fat people on the money that
ought to have gone into the fishermen's pockets; and he died after eating
too much salmon and cucumber at his own table. Poetic justice, you know.
There are stained glass windows up to his memory in two churches and tons
of good white marble were wasted when they made his grave. But he was a
thief, just as surely as your father is an honest man; so you have the
advantage of me, Joan. I really doubt if I'm respectable enough for you to
know and trust."
"I'd trust 'e with anything, Mister Jan, 'cause you'm plain-spoken an'
true.
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