The interrupting question was like the bite of a big fly to a sweating horse. "I'm getting sick of hearing about him from you," cried Hull with the pettishness of the spoiled children of the upper class.
"In what way is he rough?" persisted Miss Hastings. "If you didn't wish to talk about Victor Dorn, why did you bring the subject up?"
"Oh—all right," cried Hull, restraining himself. "Victor isn't exactly rough. He can act like a gentleman—when he happens to want to. But you never can tell what he'll do next."
"You MUST bring him to call!" exclaimed Miss Hastings.
"Impossible," said Hull angrily.
"But he's the only man I've heard about since I've been home that I've taken the least interest in."
"If he did come, your father would have the servants throw him off the place."
"Oh, no," said Hiss Hastings haughtily. "My father wouldn't insult a guest of mine."
"But you don't know, Jen," cried David. "Why, Victor Dorn attacks your father in the most outrageous way in his miserable little anarchist paper—calls him a thief, a briber, a blood-sucker—a—I'd not venture to repeat to you the things he says."
"No doubt he got a false impression of father because of that damage suit," said Miss Hastings mildly. "That was a frightful thing. I can't be so unjust as to blame him, Davy—can you?"