“I fancy the most sensible man in the world would be a trifle annoyed at being defeated in an election, Miss Thorn,” said Vancouver blandly. “I am afraid you are not very sorry for him. He is an old friend of mine, and though I differ from him in politics, very passively, I cannot do less than go and see him, and tell him how much I regret, personally, that he should be defeated.”
Joe’s lip curled in scorn, and she flushed angrily. She could have struck Vancouver’s pale face with infinite pleasure and satisfaction, but she said nothing in immediate answer.
“Do you not think I am right?” asked Vancouver. “I am sure you do; you have such a good heart.” They passed Charles Street as he was speaking, and yet he gave no sign of leaving her.
“I am not sure that I have a good heart, and I am quite sure that you are utterly wrong, Mr. Vancouver,” said Joe, in calm tones.
“Really? Why, you quite surprise me, Miss Thorn. Any man in my place ought”–
“Most men in your place would avoid Mr. Harrington,” interrupted Joe, turning her clear brown eyes full upon him. Had she been less angry she would have been more cautious. But her blood was up, and she took no thought, but said what she meant, boldly.
“Indeed, Miss Thorn,” said Vancouver, stiffly, “I do not understand you in the least. I think what you say is very extraordinary. John Harrington has always been a friend of mine.”
“That may be, Mr. Vancouver, but you are certainly no friend of his,” said Joe, with a scornful laugh.
“You astonish me beyond measure,” rejoined Pocock, maintaining his air of injured virtue, although he inwardly felt that he was in some imminent danger. “How can you possibly say such a thing?”
Joe could bear it no longer. She was very imprudent, but her honest anger boiled over. She stopped in her walk, her back against the iron railings, and she faced Vancouver with a look that frightened him. He was forced to stop also, and he could not do less than return her glance.