There was one word which stood out strangely alien:
haberdasher. Why that word? Was it a corner of the curtain she had
been striving to look behind? Had Thomas been a haberdasher prior to
his stewardship? And was he ashamed of the fact?
Haberdasher.
What's the matter with that word? If it irked Thomas it irked Kitty no
less. It is a part of youth to crave for high-sounding names and
occupations. It is in the mother's milk they feed on. Mothers dream
of their babes growing up into presidents or at least ambassadors, if
sons; titles and brilliant literary salons, if daughters. What living
mother would harbor a dream of a clerkship in a haberdasher's shop?
Perish the thought! Myself for years was told that I had as good a
chance as anybody of being president of the United States; a far better
chance than many, being as I was _my_ mother's son.
Irish blood and romance will always be mysteriously intertwined.
Haberdasher did not fit in anywhere with Kitty's projects; it was
off-key, a jarring note. Whoever heard of a haberdasher's clerk
reading _Morte d'Arthur_ and writing sonnets? She was reasonably
certain that while Thomas had jotted it down in scornful
self-flagellation, it occupied a place somewhere in his past.
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