“Question for question. It is my turn again, Mrs. Lammle. What made you suppose me a man of property?”
“You made me suppose you so. Perhaps you will deny that you always presented yourself to me in that character?”
“But you asked somebody, too. Come, Mrs. Lammle, admission for admission. You asked somebody?”
“I asked Veneering.”
“And Veneering knew as much of me as he knew of you, or as anybody knows of him.”
After more silent walking, the bride stops short, to say in a passionate manner:
“I never will forgive the Veneerings for this!”
“Neither will I,” returns the bridegroom.
With that, they walk again; she, making those angry spirts in the sand; he, dragging that dejected tail. The tide is low, and seems to have thrown them together high on the bare shore. A gull comes sweeping by their heads and flouts them. There was a golden surface on the brown cliffs but now, and behold they are only damp earth. A taunting roar comes from the sea, and the far-out rollers mount upon one another, to look at the entrapped impostors, and to join in impish and exultant gambols.
“Do you pretend to believe,” Mrs. Lammle resumes, sternly, “when you talk of my marrying you for worldly advantages, that it was within the bounds of reasonable probability that I would have married you for yourself?”
“Again there are two sides to the question, Mrs. Lammle. What do you pretend to believe?”