He knew his ground.

He knew the date and the meaning of every little ornament--the title and the writer of each book--the very material with which the chairs were covered; and he knew that all was good--all arranged with that art which is the difference between ignorance and knowledge.
"I see you have all the new books." "Yes, we have books and magazines; but, of course, we live quite out of the world." She paused, leaving the conversation with him, as in the hands of one who knew his business.
"I," he said, filling up the pause, "have hitherto lived in the world--right in it.

There is a lot of dust and commotion; the dust gets into people's eyes and blinds them; the commotion wears them out; and perhaps, after all, Loango is better!" He spoke with the easy independence of the man of the world, accustomed to feel his way in strange places--not heeding what opinion he might raise--what criticism he might brave.

He was glancing round him all the while, noting things, and wondering for whose benefit this pretty room had been evolved in the heart of a savage country.

Perhaps he had assimilated erroneous notions of womankind in the world of which he spoke; perhaps he had never met any of those women whose natural refinement urges them to surround themselves, even in solitude, with pretty things, and prompts them to dress as neatly and becomingly as their circumstances allow for the edification of no man.
"I never abuse Loango," she answered; "such abuse is apt to recoil.