"I shall always be a joke to you, Diana."
"Well, if our whole social fabric isn't a joke," Di interrupted, "pray, what is it?"
"I don't belong to the social fabric. I'm an outsider."
Again she feverishly interrupted.
"Oh, you can't escape. You are up on the block. Look your best, and try to bring a fancy price. We have always sold our women, and now we have taken to selling our men."
For a moment he wondered if she, too, approved of the fortune hunt.
"Are you in the Chichester Jones conspiracy, too?" he asked.
"Certainly," the answer came, but with it a look that plainly contradicted the words. She was in wild spirits, he could see; he let her run on. "You are a monster of selfish obstinacy, Jim. Your inability to grasp your own best interests and ours—is a proof of a feeble intellect—and a wicked heart."
Gayly he entered into her mood. "Well, Diana," he said, "I'm an amiable brute. If you insist upon it, perhaps—"
"Good," she cut in quickly as she jumped up on the seat and clung to an overhanging bough. "Let me be the auctioneer; I'll get you a good price." Blithely assuming the voice and manner of a professional auctioneer, she began: "Step up, ladies—step up, ladies. Please examine this first-class specimen of the British aristocracy. He is kind and gentle, sound in mind and limb; will travel well in double harness—has blue ribbons and medals, and a pedigree longer than your purses. He's for sale; how much am I bid—"