From the instant she heard of them she hated these South Harting people unrestrainedly. She made no attempt to conceal it. Her valiant bantam spirit caught at this quarrel as a refuge from the rare and uncongenial ache of his secession. “And who are they? What are they? What sort of people can they be to drag in a passing young man? I suppose this girl of theirs goes out every evening—Was she painted, Poff?”
She whipped him with her questions as though she was slashing his face. He became dead-white and grimly civil, answering every question as though it was the sanest, most justifiable inquiry.
“Of course I don't know who they are. How should I know? What need is there to know?”
“There are ways of finding out,” she insisted. “If I am to go down and make myself pleasant to these people because of you.”
“But I implore you not to.”
“And five minutes ago you were imploring me to! Of course I shall.”
“Oh well!—well!”
“One has to know SOMETHING of the people to whom one commits oneself, surely.”
“They are decent people; they are well-behaved people.”
“Oh!—I'll behave well. Don't think I'll disgrace your casual acquaintances. But who they are, what they are, I WILL know....”