Lucy. I am so sorry! And now tell me all about your grand friends and——
Harold. They are not grand to me. Simply because a person is rich or has a title, I don't consider them any “grander” than I—by jove, no! These people are useful to me, or else I shouldn't stand it. They “patronise” me, put their hand on my shoulder and say, “My dear young friend, we predict great things for you.” The fools, as though a single one of them was capable even of forming an opinion, much less of prophesying. They make remarks about me before my face; they talk of, and pet, me as though I were a poodle. I go through my tricks and they applaud; and they lean over with an idiotic simper to the dear friend next to them and say, “Isn't he clever?” as though they had taught me themselves. Bah! They invite me to their houses, I dine with them once a week; but if I were to tell them to-morrow that I wanted to marry one of their daughters, they would kick me out of the room, and consider it a greater insult than if the proposal had come from their own footman.
Lucy. But that doesn't matter, because you don't want to marry one of them, do you? Was that Miss Mockton with you in the Park last Sunday?
Harold. How do you know I was in the Park at all?
Lucy. Because I saw you there.
Harold. You were spying, I suppose.
Lucy. Spying? I don't know what you mean. I went there for a walk after church.
Harold. Alone?
Lucy. Of course not, I was with Mrs. Glover.
Harold. Your landlady?