"One of the shop kind--where they sell money--with glass doors." "My father was a banker, if that's what you mean," said Lady Beauleigh.
"But a bank isn't a shop." "Oh, I always think it a kind of shop," said Tinker with the dispassionate air of a professor discussing a problem in the Higher Mathematics.

"It's as well to lump all these--these commercial things together, isn't it ?" And he was very pleased with the word commercial.
"No: it isn't! A bank isn't a shop, you stupid little boy!" cried Lady Beauleigh hotly.
"Well, just as you like," said Tinker with graceful surrender.

"I only call it a shop because it's convenient." "A boy of your age ought not to think about convenience.

You ought to have been taught to keep things clear and distinct," said Lady Beauleigh in a heavy, didactic voice.
"Oh, it's quite clear to me, really, that a bank's a shop; but we won't talk about it, if you're ashamed of it.

After all, one doesn't talk about trade, does one ?" said Tinker with a return to his kindly but exasperating patronage.
"Ashamed of it?
I'm not ashamed of it!" said Lady Beauleigh in the roar of a wounded lioness.
"No, no; of course not! I only thought you were! I made a mistake!" said Tinker quickly, with an infuriating show of humouring her.
"I'm proud of it! Proud of it!" said Lady Beauleigh thickly.