“I refer,” said Cheriton, “to the most dangerous man in London. The turkey-faced ruffian! He would undermine the moral code of Augustine himself.”
“Happily,” said the occupant of the four-poster, “I am not Augustine. As far as George is concerned, I stand where I was. Yet, mark one thing, Cheriton—mark one thing fully”—the quiescent lioness paused to unfurl as it were the ominous jowl from the band of her nightgown—the figure is not a pretty one to describe a peeress of mature years, but it seems to be the only one that can in anywise do justice to the slowly kindling flame of sarcasm that was revealing itself in the thin lips and the fierce eyes—“I have a greater respect for George at this moment than I have ever had before.”
“Have you, Caroline?” said her old friend, meditatively.
He was a cool hand, but he was a little uneasy. The occupant of the four-poster marked down the suspicion of disquietude, whereas a less virile observer would not have noticed it at all.
“Yes, Cheriton,” said the raven’s voice. “Whatever George may be or whatever he may not be, in my opinion he is a practical man.”
“Practical enough, I grant you, where his passions are concerned.”
“In my judgment,” said the occupant of the four-poster, “it is precisely where his passions are concerned that a man ought to be practical.”
Cheriton agreed with reluctance.
“But there are people,” said he, with an air of refinement, “to whom the practical pursuit of passion must always seem a repulsive undertaking.”
“There are many humbugs in the world,” said Caroline Crewkerne. “Personally I agree with George that passion ought to be placed upon a business basis.”