“What—what kind of things?”
“This kind. You see, Grandmother lives near Temple Barholm, and I know what it's like, and you don't. And I've seen what seventy thousand pounds a year means, and you haven't. And you've got to go and find out for yourself.”
“What's the matter with you coming along to help me?”
“I shouldn't help you; that's it. I should hold you back. I'm nothing but Ann Hutchinson, and I talk Manchester—and I drop my h's.”
“I love to hear you drop your little h's all over the place,” he burst forth impetuously. “I love it.”
She shook her head.
“The girls that go to garden-parties at Temple Barholm look like those in the `Ladies' Pictorial', and they've got names and titles same as those in novels.”
He answered her in genuine anguish. He had never made any mistake about her character, and she was beginning to make him feel afraid of her in the midst of his adoration.
“What do I want with a girl out of a magazine?” he cried. “Where should I hang her up?”
She was not unfeeling, but unshaken and she went on: