“No.”
“The other way, then?”
She did not answer.
“I'm delighted!” exclaimed Staniford. “I hope I don't exert an uncomfortable influence. I should be very unhappy to think so.” Lydia stooped side-wise, away from him, to get a fresh hold of her skirt, which she was carrying in her right hand, and she hung a little more heavily upon his arm. “I hope I make you think better of yourself,—very self-satisfied, very conceited even.”
“No,” said Lydia.
“You pique my curiosity beyond endurance. Tell me how I make you feel.”
She looked quickly round at him, as if to see whether he was in earnest. “Why, it's nothing,” she said. “You made me feel as if you were laughing at everybody.”
It flatters a man to be accused of sarcasm by the other sex, and Staniford was not superior to the soft pleasure of the reproach. “Do you think I make other people feel so, too?”
“Mr. Dunham said—”
“Oh! Mr. Dunham has been talking me over with you, has he? What did he tell you of me? There is nobody like a true friend for dealing an underhand blow at one's reputation. Wait till you hear my account of Dunham! What did he say?”