She knew well enough that she had done rather a fine thing, and her
demeanour showed it. Ted Malkin enveloped the tin in suitable paper.
"Sure there's nothing else?"
"Not at this counter."
He gave her the tin, smiled, and as he turned to the next waiting
customer, called out--
"Singapore Delicious, eight and a half pence."
It was rather a poor affair, that tin--a declension from the great
days of Mrs. Maldon's married life, when she spent freely, knowing
naught of her husband's income except that it was large and elastic.
In those days she would buy a real pineapple, entire, once every three
weeks or so, costing five, six, seven, or eight shillings--gorgeous
and spectacular fruit. Now she might have pineapple every day if she
chose, but it was not quite the same pineapple. She affected to like
it, she did like it, but the difference between the old pineapple and
the new was the saddening difference, for Mrs. Maldon's secret heart,
between the great days and the paltry, facile convenience of the
twentieth century.
It was to his aunt, who presided over the opposite side of the shop,
including the cash-desk, that Ted Malkin proclaimed in a loud voice
the amounts of purchases on his own side.
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