He has done what he believes that courage, truth, and loyalty to this poor little girl with the primrose skips demanded, but doing our duty, unhappily, is apt to leave a shivery and prickly sensation behind it, and his reasons do not, even to himself, appear so logical, admirable, and clear as they had done three months ago.
And why will she say “liberry” and “umberellar”? and her ankles certainly are thick! He tries to remember Sybil in Disraeli’s romance of that name, but he cannot conceal from his mind that Annie is not in the very least like Sybil, if he himself somewhat resembles Egremont.
“And may I tell people?” asks Marlow, with his eyes staring wide open.
“You may tell every one. The office of bellman to society is, I believe, very congenial to you.”
“Eh? Lord, how they will laugh! They’ll die of laughin’.”
Bertram reddens angrily.
“No doubt they will laugh. Such laughter is still as like the crackling of thorns under a pot as it was in the days of Solomon.”
Marlow continues to stare stupidly.
“Are you sure you aren’t jokin’? chaffin’? humbuggin’?” he asks.
“I do not joke,” replies Bertram, with chill dignity. “And certainly I should not use banter on so delicate and solemn a subject. If you think the actions of my insignificant personality will amuse people, you are at liberty to amuse them.”