"Not in the least, of course!" he said ungraciously, scornfully. "But you would come, you know. Nice place, eh? Nice looking houses, eh? Aren't you glad you came?" His manner was contemptuous, almost fierce. Jack Hanbury had the reputation of being, clever, extremely clever. He was very fond of Dora, but like many clever young men, he had a great scorn of women when they assumed, or took an interest in things out of their sphere. Dora knew the impetuous, volcanic nature of Jack, and, under ordinary circumstances, admired and smiled at his outbursts, for she knew that while they might be provoked by her, personally, they were not directed against her personally, but against her sex generally.
"Indeed, Jack, you wrong me, if you think I am alarmed. I am only surprised, not frightened."
"You would come, you know," he repeated, a little softened. The heart of the man would be hard indeed, if he could be insensible to the beauty of her face and her voice, and the touch of her trembling, confiding, delicate, brown-gloved hand.
With a little shudder of reassurance, she looked round, "And, Jack, are these the people who live here?"
"Yes," he answered, moving his eyes from right to left in disdain, "these are the people who live here. I told you they weren't nice. Are they? How should you like to live here in this part of Westminster?"
She shuddered again and pressed his arm to convince herself of his presence and protection. "It is of no consequence whether I should like to live here or not----"
"No; because you are not obliged to live here."
"That is not what I was going to say. It is of no consequence whether I should like to live here or not. What is of consequence is that these poor people have to live here, Jack."
"They aren't people at all, I tell you. The people of no country are people in the sense of fine ladies."
"Jack!" she said, in protest and expostulation.