"You told me he had been in the seventh heaven of devotion, especially that night we went to the foyer of the Français," Mrs. Rooth insisted.
"Do you call the seventh heaven of devotion serious? He's in love with me, je le veux bien; he's so poisoned—Mr. Dormer vividly puts it—as to require a strong antidote; but he has never spoken to me as if he really expected me to listen to him, and he's the more of a gentleman from that fact. He knows we haven't a square foot of common ground—that a grasshopper can't set up a house with a fish. So he has taken care to say to me only more than he can possibly mean. That makes it stand just for nothing."
"Did he say more than he can possibly mean when he took formal leave of you yesterday—for ever and ever?" the old woman cried.
On which Nick re-enforced her. "And don't you call that—his taking formal leave—a sacrifice?"
"Oh he took it all back, his sacrifice, before he left the house."
"Then has that no meaning?" demanded Mrs. Rooth.
"None that I can make out," said her daughter.
"Ah I've no patience with you: you can be stupid when you will—you can be even that too!" the poor lady groaned.
"What mamma wishes me to understand and to practise is the particular way to be artful with Mr. Sherringham," said Miriam. "There are doubtless depths of wisdom and virtue in it. But I see only one art—that of being perfectly honest."
"I like to hear you talk—it makes you live, brings you out," Nick contentedly dropped. "And you sit beautifully still. All I want to say is please continue to do so: remain exactly as you are—it's rather important—for the next ten minutes."