Old Lindon was still hardly fit to do much else than splutter,—certainly not qualified to chop phrases with this sharp-tongued maiden.
‘D-don’t talk to me li-like that, girl!—I—I believe you’re s-stark mad!’ He turned to me. ‘W-what was that tomfoolery she was talking to you about?’
‘To what do you allude?’
‘About a rub-rubbishing b-beetle, and g-goodness alone knows what,—d-diseased and m-morbid imagination,—r-reared on the literature of the gutter!—I never thought that a child of mine could have s-sunk to such a depth!—Now, Atherton, I ask you to t-tell me frankly,—what do you think of a child who behaves as she has done? who t-takes a nameless vagabond into the house and con-conceals his presence from her father? And m-mark the sequel! even the vagabond warns her against the r-rascal Lessingham!—Now, Atherton, tell me what you think of a girl who behaves like that?’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I—I know very well what you d-do think of her,—don’t be afraid to say it out because she’s present.’
‘No; Sydney, don’t be afraid.’
I saw that her eyes were dancing,—in a manner of speaking, her looks brightened under the sunshine of her father’s displeasure.
‘Let’s hear what you think of her as a—as a m-man of the world!’
‘Pray, Sydney, do!’
‘What you feel for her in your—your heart of hearts!’
‘Yes, Sydney, what do you feel for me in your heart of hearts?’