“Ah, yes,” he said, interrupting me, and placing his hand on his heart, “I am a gentleman. I thank you.”
“And,” I continued, “I am so much beneath you.”
“Never,” he said, energetically; “I have said to you before, you are a lady. Think you I do not know a lady when she presents herself? It is not station—it is not birth—it is not rank. It is manner. On my honour I say it—you are a lady.”
I gave him a sharp look, doubtful for a moment whether he was in earnest; but the false ring in his false voice should of itself have convinced me that he was as insincere as it was possible for any human being to be.
“It is,” he said, with a wave of his hand towards the Square, “still excitement. People still come to look and see. What do they expect?”
“I suppose,” I said, “it is because of that wonderful account in the newspaper about the poor gentleman who was murdered. Did you read it?”
“Did I read it!” he echoed. “I was the first. It is what you say—wonderful. What think you of the lady with the pretty name—I forget it—remind me of it.”
“Lydia,” I said.
“Ah, yes, Lydia. It is a pretty name—remarkable.” (“Then,” thought I, following his words and manner with close attention, “if you think the name so pretty and remarkable, how comes it that you forget it so soon?” But I did not say this aloud.) “What think you of her?”
“I think she is to be pitied,” I said; “it was a dreadful story she told the reporter. It is like a romance.”