He casts off--he disowns me.

Isn't he a stern brother?
And the quarrel is about nothing." The impudence--or the presence of mind of it--overwhelmed me.
Churchill smiled pleasantly.
"Oh--one always quarrels about nothing," Churchill answered.

He spoke a few words to her; about my aunt; about the way her machine ran--that sort of thing.

He behaved toward her as if she were an indulged child, impertinent with licence and welcome enough.

He himself looked rather like the short-sighted, but indulgent and very meagre lion that peers at the unicorn across a plum-cake.
"So you are going back to Paris," he said.