“Hunger!”
“Hunger—famine—starvation. Don't you know English?”
“I hope you are not serious, madam,” said Vizard, very gravely. “However, if ladies will say such things as that, men with stomachs in their bosoms must act accordingly. Oblige me by taking my arm, as you are weak, and we will adjourn to that eating-house over the way.”
“Much obliged,” said the lady, satirically, “our acquaintance is not quite long enough for that.”
He looked at her; a tall, slim, young lady, black merino, by no means new, clean cuffs and collar leaning against the chair for support, and yet sacrificing herself to conventional propriety, and even withstanding him with a pretty little air of defiance that was pitiable, her pallor and the weakness of her body considered.
The poor Woman-hater's bowels began to yearn. “Look here, you little spitfire,” said he, “if you don't instantly take my arm, I'll catch you up and carry you over, with no more trouble than you would carry a thread-paper.”
She looked him up and down very keenly, and at last with a slight expression of feminine approval, the first she had vouchsafed him. Then she folded her arms, and cocked her little nose at him, “You daren't. I'll call the police.”
“If you do, I'll tell them you are my little cousin, mad as a March hare: starving, and won't eat. Come, how is it to be?” He advanced upon her.
“You can't be in earnest, sir,” said she, with sudden dignity.
“Am I not, though? You don't know me. I am used to be obeyed. If you don't go with me like a sensible girl, I'll carry you—to your dinner—like a ruffian.”