“She didn’t tell me that,” said Lovibond.
“Whoever he is he’s a wastrel,” said Davy.
“I’m afraid you’re right, Capt’n,” said Lovibond.
“Women is priv’leged where money goes,” said Davy. “If they haven’t got it by heirship they can’t make it by industry, and to accuse them of being without it is taking a mane advantage. It’s hitting below the belt, sir. Accuse a man if you like—ten to one he’s lazy—but a woman—never, sir, never, never!”
Davy was tramping the room by this time, and making it ring with the voice as of a lion, and the foot as of an elephant.
“More till that, sir,” he said. “A good girl with nothing at her who takes a bad man with a million cries talley with the crayther the day she marries him. What has he brought her? His dirty, mucky, measley money, come from the Lord knows where. What has she brought him? Herself, and everything she is and will be, stand or fall, sink or swim, blow high, blow low—to sail by his side till they cast anchor together at last Don’t you hould with me there, sir?”
“I do, Capt’n, I do,” said Lovibond.
“And the ruch man that goes bearing up alongside a girl that’s sweet and honest, and then twitting her with being poorer till hisself, is a dirt and divil, and ought to be walloped out of the company of dacent men.”
“But, Capt’n,” said Lovibond, falteringly! “Capt’n....”
“What?”