A week, a month, and then the brute in you would out.

You make a woman fond, and then--a mat for your feet, and your wicked smile, and savage English words to drive her to the vitriol or the Seine.

Et puis, dear monsieur, accept my good friendship; nothing more.

I will sing to you, dance to you, even pray for you--we poor sinners do that sometimes, and go on sinning; but, again, nothing more." Ian admired her all the more for her refusal of him, and they had been good friends.

He had told her of his nephew's coming, had hinted at his fortune, at his primitive soul, at the unconventional strain in him, even at marriage.