He still belonged to other--and higher--spheres.
There was a great contrast between him and Ian Stafford.

Ian was handsome, exquisitely refined, lean and graceful of figure, with a mind which saw the end of your sentences from the first word, with a skill of speech like a Damascus blade, with knowledge of a half-dozen languages.

Ian had an allusiveness of conversation which made human intercourse a perpetual entertainment, and Jasmine's intercourse with him a delight which lingered after his going until his coming again.
The contrast was prodigious--and perplexing, for Rudyard Byng had qualities which compelled her interest.

She sighed as she reflected.
"I suppose you can't get three millions all to yourself with your own hands without missing a good deal and getting a good deal you could do without," she said to herself, as he wonderingly interjected the exclamation: "Now, what do you know of the Limpopo?
I'll venture there isn't another woman in England who even knows the name." "I always had a thirst for travel, and I've read endless books of travel and adventure," she replied.

"I'd have been an explorer, or a Cecil Rhodes, if I had been a man." "Can you ride ?" he asked, looking wonderingly at her tiny hand, her slight figure, her delicate face with its almost impossible pink and white.
"Oh, man of little faith!" she rejoined.