"They never know when they are well off," said Mr. Earlforward.
"No ... I expect this Square used to belong to your family," Mrs. Arb remarked with deference.
"Oh! I shouldn't say that," answered Mr. Earlforward modestly. "But it was named after my grandfather's brother."
"It must have been very nice when it was new," said Mrs. Arb, tactfully adopting towards the Square a more respectful attitude than aforetime. Clearly she desired to please. Clearly she had a kind heart. "But when the working-class get a hold on a place, what are you to do?"
"You'd scarcely think it," said Mr. Earlforward with grim resignation, "but this district was very fashionable once. There used to be an archery ground where our steps are." (He enjoyed saying "our steps," the phrase united him to her.)
"Really!"
"Yes. And at one time the Duke of Newcastle lived just close by. Look here. I'll show you something. It's quite near."
In a few minutes they were at the corner of a vast square—you could have put four Riceymans into it—of lofty reddish houses, sombre and shabby, with a great railed garden and great trees in the middle, and a wide roadway round. With all its solidity, in that neighbourhood it seemed to have the unreal quality of a vision, a creation of some djinn, formed in an instant and destined as quickly to dissolve; it seemed to have no business where it was.
"Look at that!" said Mr. Earlforward eagerly, pointing to the sign, "Wilmington Square." "Ever heard of it before?"
Mrs. Arb shook her astonished head.