Her point of view surprised him. He had expected nothing but a docile sympathy. “But to tell people here!” he said.
“Yes, I suppose one oughtn’t to tell them here.”
“Man does not live by bread alone.”
She gave the faintest assent.
“This is the work of one pushful, shoving creature, a man named Harman. Imagine him! Imagine what he must be! Don’t you feel his soul defiling us?—this summit of a stupendous pile of—dough, thinking of nothing but his miserable monstrous profits, seeing nothing in the delight of life, the beauty of the world but something that attracts attention, draws eyes, something that gives him his horrible opportunity of getting ahead of all his poor little competitors and inserting—this! It’s the quintessence of all that is wrong with the world;—squalid, shameless huckstering!” He flew off at a tangent. “Four or five years ago they made this landscape disease,—a knight!”
He looked at her for a sympathetic indignation, and then suddenly something snapped in his brain and he understood. There wasn’t an instant between absolute innocence and absolute knowledge.
“You see,” she said as responsive as though he had cried out sharply at the horror in his mind, “Sir Isaac is my husband. Naturally ... I ought to have given you my name to begin with. It was silly....”
Mr. Brumley gave one wild glance at the board, but indeed there was not a word to be said in its mitigation. It was the crude advertisement of a crude pretentious thing crudely sold. “My dear lady!” he said in his largest style, “I am desolated! But I have said it! It isn’t a pretty board.”
A memory of epithets pricked him. “You must forgive—a certain touch of—rhetoric.”
He turned about as if to dismiss the board altogether, but she remained with her brows very faintly knit, surveying the cause of his offence.