"Unquestionably, madam. I happen to know John Marvel, the gentleman who called on you, very well, and I know him to be one of the best men in the world. I know that he supported that poor family out of his own small income, and when they were turned out of their house, fed them until he could get the father some work to do. He was not an anarchist, but a hard-working Scotchman, who had been ill and had lost his place."
"Oh!" she said—this time with renewed superciliousness, raising her lorgnon to observe some newcomers.
"Perhaps, you happen also to know McNeil's counsel—perhaps, you are the man yourself?" she added insolently.
"Perhaps you are the man yourself?" she added insolently.
I bowed low. "I am."
The truth swept over her like a flood. Before she recovered, I bowed my adieux, of which, so far as I could see, she took no notice. She turned to Pushkin, as Miss Leigh, from behind a high-backed chair, held out her hand to me. "Well, poor McNeil's done for now," she said in an undertone. But as the latter smiled in my eyes, I did not care what her aunt said.