They like a man--like me--a pawer of the ground--a snorter--a warhorse that cries ha-ha among the trumpets." "The worst thing about what you say," replied Arkwright sourly, "is that it's the truth.

I don't say the women aren't worthy of us, but I do say they're not worthy of our opinion of them....

Well, I suppose you're going to try to marry her"-- this with a vicious gleam which he felt safe in indulging openly before one so self-absorbed and so insensible to subtleties of feeling and manner.
"I think not," said Craig judicially.

"She'd play hell with my politics.
It's bad enough to have fights on every hand and all the time abroad.
It'd be intolerable to have one at home--and I've got no time to train her to my uses and purposes." Usually Craig's placid conviction that the universe existed for his special benefit and that anything therein was his for the mere formality of claiming it moved Arkwright to tolerant amusement at his lack of the sense of proportion and humor.

Occasionally it moved him to reluctant admiration--this when some apparently absurd claim of his proved more or less valid.