at's what you've come for, my child," he
patronized me.

"It doesn't need to be mended," said I. "It's beautiful lace. It's to be
sold."

"Oa--oh," he exploded with a cockney drawl, and a rude look coming into
his eyes which he'd kept out while there was hope that the dusty,
blown-about little thing might turn into a customer. "Well! Let's see!
But I've got more old lace on hand now than I know what to do with."

As I unrolled layers of tissue paper which seemed to rustle loudly out
of sheer spite, I was conscious that the customer had sauntered away as
far as possible, and was gazing at some old prints on the wall which
gave him an excuse to turn his back to us. I thought this sweetly
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 per