"I intend to know him much better if he'll let me," said May.
"Oh, he'll let you." The old lady's gaze was very intent; she had by now made up her mind that this must be Sandro's Empress. Had she been omnipotent, she would at that moment have decreed that Sandro should never see his Empress again; she was quite clear that he and his Empress would not be good for one another. "I begin to hear them talking about him," she went on with a chuckle. "He's coming into fashion, he's to be the new man for a while. You London people love a new man just as you do a new craze. You're fine talkers too. I like your buzz. It's a great hum, hum, buzz, buzz. It turns some men's heads, but it only sharpens others' wits; it won't turn Sandro's head."
"I'm glad you allow him some virtues."
"Oh, if it's a virtue to look so straight forward to where you mean to get that nothing will turn your head away from it."
"That's twisting your own words, Miss Quisanté. I don't think he's that sort of man at all; he isn't the least your—your iron adventurer. He's full of emotion, of feeling, of—well, almost of poetry. Oh, not always good poetry, I know. But how funny that I should be defending him and you attacking him; it would be much more natural the other way round."
"I don't see that. I know him better than you do. Now he's to champion the Church—or some such nonsense! What's Sandro got to do with your Church? What does he care about it?"
"He cared about his subject the other evening; you must admit that."
"Oh, his subject! Yes, he cares about it while it's his subject."
May laughed. "I want to take just one liberty, Miss Quisanté," she said. "May I? I want to tell you that I think you're a great deal more than half wrong about your nephew."
"Even if I am, I'm right enough for practical purposes with the other part," said the obstinate old woman. She leant forward and spoke with a sudden bitter emphasis. "It's not all outside, he's wrong inside too."