He was not sure that her attitude to Miss Quincey was not the most beautiful thing about her.

He had begun by thinking about the colour of Rhoda's eyes.

He could not for the life of him remember whether they were blue or green, till something (Miss Quincey's eyes perhaps) reminded him that they were grey, pure grey, without a taint of green or a shadow of blue in them.

That was what his mind was running on as he looked into the distance and Miss Quincey imagined that his bumpy intellectual forehead was bulging with great thoughts.

And now Miss Quincey supplied a convenient pivot for the wild gyrations of his wrath.