“Well, that is a big word for a small transaction; you have not dug in the mine of the vernacular for nothing.”
“Harrington, if you don't mind, I do; so please come. I'll talk to her.”
“Stop a moment,” said Vizard, very gravely. “You will not say one word to her.”
“And why not, pray?”
“Because it would be unworthy of us, and cruel to her; barbarously cruel. What! call her to account before that old woman and me?”
“Why not? She is flaunting her blues before you two, and plenty more.”
“Feminine logic, Zoe. The point is this—she is poor. You must know that. This comes of poverty and love of dress; not of dishonesty and love of dress; and just ask yourself, is there a creature that ought to be pitied more and handled more delicately than a poor lady? Why, you would make her writhe with shame and distress! Well, I do think there is not a single wild animal so cruel to another wild animal as a woman is to a woman. You are cruel to one another by instinct. But I appeal to your reason—if you have any.”
Zoe's eyes filled. “You are right,” said she, humbly. “Thank you for thinking for me. I will not say a word to her before you.”
“That is a good girl. But, come now, why say a word at all?”
“Oh, it is no use your demanding impossibilities, dear. I could no more help speaking to her than I could fly; and don't go fancying she will care a pin what I say, if I don't say it before a gentleman.”