"It all depends, if you don't mind being told."
"By you?"
"I don't expect you to be told by strangers."
"Oo!" said Kipps, expressing much.
"You know, there are just a few little things. For instance, you know, you are careless with your pronunciation.... You don't mind my telling you?"
"I like it," said Kipps.
"There's aitches."
"I know," said Kipps, and then, endorsingly, "I been told. Fact is, I know a chap, a Nacter, _he's_ told me. He's told me, and he's going to give me a lesso nor so."
"I'm glad of that. It only requires a little care."
"Of course. On the stage they got to look out. They take regular lessons."
"Of course," said Helen, a little absently.
"I dessay I shall soon get into it," said Kipps.
"And then there's dress," said Helen, taking up her thread again.
Kipps became pink, but he remained respectfully attentive.
"You don't mind?" she said.
"Oo, no."
"You mustn't be too--too dressy. It's possible to be over-conventional, over-elaborate. It makes you look like a shop--like a common, well-off person. There's a sort of easiness that is better. A real gentleman looks right, without looking as though he had tried to be right."
"Jest as though 'e'd put on what came first?" said the pupil, in a faded voice.
"Not exactly that, but a sort of ease."
Kipps nodded his head intelligently. In his heart he was kicking his silk hat about the room in an ecstasy of disappointment.
"And you must accustom yourself to be more at your ease when you are with people," said Helen. "You've only got to forget yourself a little and not be anxious----"
"I'll try," said Kipps, looking rather hard at the teapot. "I'll do my best to try."
"I know you will," she said, and laid a hand for an instant upon his shoulder and withdrew it.
He did not perceive her caress. "One has to learn," he said. His attention was distracted by the strenuous efforts that were going on in the back of his head to translate, "I say, didn't you ought to name the day?" into easy as well as elegant English, a struggle that was still undecided when the time came for them to part....
He sat for a long time at the open window of his sitting-room with an intent face, recapitulating that interview. His eyes rested at last almost reproachfully on the silk hat beside him. "'Ow is one to know?"
he asked. His attention was caught by a rubbed place in the nap, and, still thoughtful, he rolled up his handkerchief skilfully into a soft ball and began to smooth this down.
His expression changed slowly.
"'Ow the Juice is one to know?" he said, putting down the hat with some emphasis.
He rose up, went across the room to the sideboard, and, standing there, opened and began to read "Manners and Rules."
CHAPTER IV
THE BICYCLE MANUFACTURER
--1
So Kipps embarked upon his engagement, steeled himself to the high enterprise of marrying above his breeding. The next morning found him dressing with a certain quiet severity of movement, and it seemed to his landlady's housemaid that he was unusually dignified at breakfast. He meditated profoundly over his kipper and his kidney and bacon. He was going to New Romney to tell the old people what had happened and where he stood. And the love of Helen had also given him courage to do what Buggins had once suggested to him as a thing he would do were he in Kipps' place, and that was to hire a motor car for the afternoon. He had an early cold lunch, and then, with an air of quiet resolution, assumed a cap and coat he had purchased to this end, and thus equipped strolled around, blowing slightly, to the motor shop. The transaction was unexpectedly easy, and within the hour Kipps, spectacled and wrapped about, was tootling through Dymchurch.
They came to a stop smartly and neatly outside the little toy shop.
"Make that thing 'oot a bit, will you," said Kipps. "Yes, that's it."
"Whup," said the motor car. "Whurrup!"
Both his Aunt and Uncle came out on the pavement. "Why, it's Artie,"
cried his Aunt, and Kipps had a moment of triumph.
He descended to hand claspings, removed wraps and spectacles, and the motor driver retired to take "an hour off." Old Kipps surveyed the machinery and disconcerted Kipps for a moment by asking him in a knowing tone what they asked him for a thing like that. The two men stood inspecting the machine and impressing the neighbours for a time, and then they strolled through the shop into the little parlour for a drink.
"They ain't settled," old Kipps had said to the neighbours. "They ain't got no further than experiments. There's a bit of take-in about each.
You take my advice and wait, me boy, even if it's a year or two, before you buy one for your own use."
(Though Kipps had said nothing of doing anything of the sort.)
"'Ow d'you like that whiskey I sent?" asked Kipps, dodging the old familiar bunch of children's pails.
Old Kipps became tactful. "It's a very good whiskey, my boy," said old Kipps. "I 'aven't the slightest doubt it's a very good whiskey and cost you a tidy price. But--dashed if it soots me! They put this here Foozle Ile in it, my boy, and it ketches me jest 'ere." He indicated his centre of figure. "Gives me the heartburn," he said, and shook his head rather sadly.
"It's a very good whiskey," said Kipps. "It's what the actor manager chaps drink in London, I 'appen to know."
"I dessay they do, my boy," said old Kipps, "but then they've 'ad their livers burnt out, and I 'aven't. They ain't dellicat like me. My stummik always _'as_ been extrey dellicat. Sometimes it's almost been as though nothing would lay on it. But that's in passing. I liked those segars.
You can send me some of them segars...."
You cannot lead a conversation straight from the gastric consequences of Foozle Ile to Love, and so Kipps, after a friendly inspection of a rare old engraving after Morland (perfect except for a hole kicked through the centre) that his Uncle had recently purchased by private haggle, came to the topic of the old people's removal.
At the outset of Kipps' great fortunes there had been much talk of some permanent provision for them. It had been conceded they were to be provided for comfortably, and the phrase "retire from business" had been very much in the air. Kipps had pictured an ideal cottage, with a creeper always in exuberant flower about the door, where the sun shone forever and the wind never blew and a perpetual welcome hovered in the doorway. It was an agreeable dream, but when it came to the point of deciding upon this particular cottage or that, and on this particular house or that, Kipps was surprised by an unexpected clinging to the little home, which he had always understood to be the worst of all possible houses.
"We don't want to move in a 'urry," said Mrs. Kipps.
"When we want to move, we want to move for life. I've had enough moving about in my time," said old Kipps.