"Her eyes are open already, I suppose."
"Not very wide. For example—you'd never marry her. Would you?"
"Don't talk that way," he said coldly.
"No, I don't have to talk at all. I know. If you ever marry, I know what deadly species of female it will be. You're probably right; you're that kind, too—no real substance to you, James. And so I think I'll have to look after my intellectual protégée, and be very sure that her pretty eyes are wide open."
He turned toward her; their glances met level and hard:
"Let matters alone," he said. "I have myself in hand."
"You have in hand a horse with a runaway record, James."
Cairns, on her left, spoke to her; she turned and answered, then presented her well-shaped back to that young gentleman and again crossed glances with Desboro, who was waiting, cool as steel.
"Come, James," she said in a low voice, "what do you mean to do? A man always means something or nothing; and the latter is the more dangerous."