THAT was part of the typical tale, the part most significant in respect to himself.

He liked the place she lived in, the picture that each time squared itself, large and high and clear, around her: every occasion of seeing it was a pleasure of a different shade.

Yet what precisely was he doing with shades of pleasure now, and why hadn't he properly and logically compelled her to commit herself to whatever of disadvantage and penalty the situation might throw up?
He might have proposed, as for Sarah Pocock, the cold hospitality of his own salon de lecture, in which the chill of Sarah's visit seemed still to abide and shades of pleasure were dim; he might have suggested a stone bench in the dusty Tuileries or a penny chair at the back part of the Champs Elysees.

These things would have been a trifle stern, and sternness alone now wouldn't be sinister.

An instinct in him cast about for some form of discipline in which they might meet--some awkwardness they would suffer from, some danger, or at least some grave inconvenience, they would incur.