“It’s plain, of course,” said Kipps, standing beside his uncle and looking down at this plan, which certainly did seem a little less magnificent now than it had at the first encounter.
“You mustn’t ’ave it too plain,” said old Kipps.
“If it’s comfortable—,” Ann hazarded.
Old Kipps glanced at her over his spectacles. “You ain’t comfortable, my gal, in this world, not if you don’t live up to your position,” so putting compactly into contemporary English that fine old phrase, noblesse oblige. “A ’ouse of this sort is what a retired tradesman might ’ave, or some little whippersnapper of a s’liciter. But you—”
“Course that isn’t the o’ny plan,” said Kipps, and tried the middle one.
But it was the third one which won over old Kipps. “Now that’s a ’ouse, my boy,” he said at the sight of it.
Ann came and stood just behind her husband’s shoulder while old Kipps expanded upon the desirability of the larger scheme. “You ought to ’ave a billiard-room,” he said; “I don’t see that, but all the rest’s all right. A lot of these ’ere officers ’ere ’ud be glad of a game of billiards.” …
“What’s all these dots?” said old Kipps.
“S’rubbery,” said Kipps. “Flow’ing s’rubs.”
“There’s eleven bedrooms in that ’ouse,” said Ann. “It’s a bit of a lot, ain’t it, uncle?”
“You’ll want ’em, my girl. As you get on, you’ll be ’aving visitors. Friends of your ’usband, p’raps, from the School of Musketry, what you want ’im to get on with. You can’t never tell.”
“If we ’ave a great s’rubbery,” Ann ventured, “we shall ’ave to keep a gardener.”
“If you don’t ’ave a s’rubbery,” said old Kipps, with a note of patient reasoning, “ ’ow are you to prevent every jackanapes that goes by, starin’ into your drorin’-room winder—p’raps when you get someone a bit special to entertain?”
“We ain’t used to a s’rubbery,” said Ann, mulishly; “we get on very well ’ere.”
“It isn’t what you’re used to,” said old Kipps, “it’s what you ought to ’ave now.” And with that Ann dropped out of the discussion.
“Study and lib’ry,” old Kipps read. “That’s right. I see a Tantalus the other day over Brookland, the very thing for a gentleman’s study. I’ll try and get over and bid for it.” …
By bus time old Kipps was quite enthusiastic about the house building, and it seemed to be definitely settled that the largest plan was the one decided upon. But Ann had said nothing further in the matter.
When Kipps returned from seeing his uncle into the bus—there always seemed a certain doubt whether that portly figure would go into the little red “Tip-Top” box—he found Ann still standing by the table, looking with an expression of comprehensive disapproval at the three plans.
“There don’t seem much the matter with uncle,” said Kipps, assuming the hearthrug, “spite of ’is ’eartburn. ’E ’opped up them steps like a bird.”
Ann remained staring at the plans.
“You don’t like them plans?” hazarded Kipps.
“No, I don’t, Artie.”
“We got to build somethin’ now.”
“But—it’s a gentleman’s ’ouse, Artie!”
“It’s—it’s a decent size, o’ course.”
Kipps took a flirting look at the drawing and went to the window.
“Look at the cleanin’. Free servants’ll be lost in that ’ouse, Artie.”
“We must ’ave servants,” said Kipps.
Ann looked despondently at her future residence.
“We got to keep up our position, any’ow,” said Kipps, turning towards her. “It stands to reason, Ann, we got a position. Very well! I can’t ’ave you scrubbin’ floors. You got to ’ave a servant and you got to manage a ’ouse. You wouldn’t ’ave me ashamed—”
Ann opened her lips and did not speak.
“What?” asked Kipps.
“Nothing,” said Ann, “only I did want it to be a little ’ouse, Artie. I wanted it to be a ’andy little ’ouse, jest for us.”
Kipps’ face was suddenly flushed and mulish. He took up the curiously smelling tracings again. “I’m not a-going to be looked down upon,” he said. “It’s not only Uncle I’m thinking of!”
Ann stared at him.
Kipps went on. “I won’t ’ave that young Walshingham f’r instance, sneering and sniffling at me. Making out as if we was all wrong. I see ’im yesterday. … Nor Coote neether. I’m as good—we’re as good. Whatever’s ’appened.”
Silence and the rustle of plans.
He looked up and saw Ann’s eyes bright with tears. For a moment the two stared at one another.
“We’ll ’ave the big ’ouse,” said Ann, with a gulp. “I didn’t think of that, Artie.”
Her aspect was fierce and resolute, and she struggled with emotion. “We’ll ’ave the big ’ouse,” she repeated. “They shan’t say I dragged you down wiv’ me—none of them shan’t say that. I’ve thought—I’ve always been afraid of that.”
Kipps looked again at the plan, and suddenly the grand house had become very grand indeed. He blew.
“No, Artie, none of them shan’t say that,” and with something blind in her motions Ann tried to turn the plan round to her. …
After all, Kipps thought there might be something to say for the milder project. … But he had gone so far that now he did not know how to say it.
And so the plans went out to the builders, and in a little while Kipps was committed to two thousand five hundred pounds worth of building. But then, you know, he had an income of twelve hundred a year.
It is extraordinary what minor difficulties cluster about house building.
“I say, Ann,” remarked Kipps one day, “we shall ’ave to call this little ’ouse by a name. I was thinking of ’Ome Cottage. But I dunno whether ’Ome Cottage is quite the thing like. All these little fishermen’s places are called Cottages.”
“I like cottage,” said Ann.
“It’s got eleven bedrooms, d’see,” said Kipps. “I don’t see ’ow you can call it a cottage with more bedrooms than four. Prop’ly speaking, it’s a Large Villa. Prop’ly, it’s almost a Big ’Ouse. Leastways a ’Ouse.”
“Well,” said Ann, “if you must call it Villa—Home Villa. … I wish it wasn’t.”
Kipps meditated.
“ ’Ow about Eureka Villa?” he said, raising his voice.
“What’s Eureka?”
“It’s a name,”
