Sanguinetti kissed his finger-tips with a movement that he had learned of his long Parisian sojourn. "The poetry of chic— But I shall go further," he presently pursued. "I don't despair, I don't despair." And he paused with his hands in his pockets, tilting himself back in his seat.
"You don't despair of what?"
"Of making her my own."
I burst out laughing: "Your own, my dear fellow! You are more enterprising than I thought. But what do you mean? I don't suppose that under the circumstances you can marry her?"
"No: under the circumstances, unfortunately, I can't. But I can have her always there."
"Always where?"
"At home, in my room. It's just the place for her."
"Ah, my good friend," I rejoined, laughing, but slightly scandalized, "that's a matter of opinion."
"It's a matter of taste. I think it would suit her."
A matter of taste, indeed, this question of common morality! Sanguinetti was more Parisianized than I had supposed, and I reflected that Paris was certainly a very dangerous place, since it had got the better of his inveterate propriety. But I was not too much shocked to be still a good deal amused.
"Of course I shall not go too fast," he went on. "I shall not be too abrupt."
