David had followed upstairs a pair who were held to slowness by the constant claim of the woman that she was too weary to go another step.
“Come along, Phoebe!” The man had a high straight back. He wore a soft collar that bared his neck. David observed that it was wiry and clean. The hairs were clipped high from it. David had time to observe. Whenever the pair came to a rest, he rested behind them. Something impeded his passing. Timidity in part. The disclosing thereby that he had overheard them, that they were moving too slowly. His own scarce unconscious resistance to mounting those stairs at all. He hated the place. But he had no reason to give to Tom. And Tom took offense at his not wishing to come.
“Why, dear man. Don’t you like Flora? I think Flora is splendid. Such poise! Or is the place too noisy for you. David? Davie, you must get accustomed to dirt!”
A vehemence in Tom that silenced David. Doubtless this was life, and life no thing to shrink from.
“But I do like Flora!” He could not add that he felt that Flora did not like him: did not seem to like any one who came there: nor the feeling that if she had known him different and uncomfortable, perhaps she would have liked him.
“Well, then!” said Tom.
The stout lady was sighing. “Why we ever come here, Jack! These stairs!”
“You know it is lots of fun, Phoebe. Go along now. You like it as well as I.” He spoke immaculate English, and urged her with a slap on her rump.
“Well, the people——”
“——the food?” he chuckled. “The mysterious bottom of Signora Sanni’s pot. One more hoist, old lady. Th—th—ere! Where else, pray, can one meet such a delightful assortment of bulls?”