Mr. Burmistone slipped his hands in his pockets, and jingled his keys slightly, as he did once before in an earlier part of this narrative.
"Ah! from his," he repeated. "Not from hers. His point of view would differ from hers—naturally."
Barold flashed a little, and took his cigar from his mouth to knock off the ashes.
"A man is not necessarily a snob," he said, "because he is cool enough not to lose his head where a woman is concerned. You can't marry a woman who will make mistakes, and attract universal attention by her conduct."
"Has it struck you that Octavia Bassett would?" inquired Burmistone.
"She would do as she chose," said Barold petulantly. "She would do things which were unusual; but I was not referring to her in particular. Why should I?"
"Ah!" said Burmistone. "I only thought of her because it did not strike me that one would ever feel she had exactly blundered. She is not easily embarrassed. There is a sang-froid about her which carries things off."
"Ah!" deigned Barold: "she has sang-froid enough and to spare."
He was silent for some time afterward, and sat smoking later than usual. When he was about to leave the room for the night, he made an announcement for which his host was not altogether prepared.
"When the fête is over, my dear fellow," he said, "I must go back to London, and I shall be deucedly sorry to do it."