"Woman," said I, "aren't you satisfied?
You have made one match--you, and you'll pardon me for saying so, not Heaven--and now you want to unmake it and make a brand-new hypothetical one." "All your talk," she said, "doesn't help poor Jaffery." I put my hand to my head to still the flickering in my brain, kissed her and retired to my dressing-room.

Barbara smiled, conscious of triumph over me.
During dinner and afterwards in the drawing-room, she played the part of Jaffery's fairy mother.

She discussed his homelessness--she had an eerie way of treading on delicate ground.

A bed in a tent or a club or an inn.
That was his home.

He had no possessions.
"Good Lord!" cried Jaffery.