Marlow’s mirth is a little subdued.
“You can’t be speaking seriously,” says one of the men present. “Bertram is not quite such an ass as that.”
“I am, though,” replies Marlow, sulkily. “I’ve seen the girl, and Bertram’s just told me to tell everybody.”
“What is her name?”
“She’s Annie Brown; we heard that yesterday. Mother takes in washing. Oh, Lord, it’ll kill me, the fun of it.”
Doubled up with silent laughter he leans upon his cane and furtively watches Cicely’s face.
“Why should you be surprised that Mr. Bertram puts his theories into practice?” she says, coldly. “It is only like Count Tolstoi’s ploughing.”
“Goodness, Cicely!” says Lady Jane, with much irritation. “You surely can’t defend such an insanity as this? It is very much worse than any plough. I thought his manner very odd yesterday about those violets; for he is not, you know, a man à bonnes fortunes.”
“You would approve him more if he were!”
“Well, they are less serious,” answers Lady Jane. “You can get rid of them; but an Annie Brown when you have once married her——”