“How you do pull up a fellow!” murmurs Marlow. “Of course, when I say friend I mean a—a—well, one of his monstrous queer acquaintances. He lives amongst that class.”
“What class?”
“Well, the—the mob—you know. Folks that come out when there’s a riot and smash windows and lamps; never see ’em any other time; burrow, I suppose, like rabbits.”
“Darkest London? I fear the lamps when they are not smashed do not throw much light on their darkness.”
“How sententious you are, Cicely!” says Lady Jane. “You ought to marry a rising politician.”
“Because I detest politics?”
“Bertram’s views aren’t politics, they’re red ruin,” repeats Marlow. “Red ruin to himself, too; he’s dropped such a pot o’ money over that revolutionary journal of his that he’ll be in the bankruptcy court before the season’s over.”
“Has he borrowed any money of you?” asks Cicely, curtly.
“Oh dear, no; I didn’t mean to imply——”
“Then what are his affairs to you?”