"You mean, sir, what excuse do I offer for not being politely vicious as seems so much the fashion?"
"I confess you puzzle me, boy, for you are anything but an angel in pantaloons. I have occasionally thought to remark in you a hint of unplumbed deeps—of passions as hot and fierce as—"
"Your own, Uncle Jervas?" At this he turned to glare at me rather haughtily, then his eyes softened, his lips twitched.
"So women do not appeal to you, Peregrine. Pray why?"
"Because woman appeals to me so much—one, sir!"
"Ah, your roving gipsy?"
"Precisely, sir."
"Where is she, at present?"
"I believe in Italy, sir."
"Hum! Your friend Vere-Manville ran across her in Rome, I believe.
When did you hear from her last?"