After all he knew her so little.

He was certain of her exquisite, playful fancy, but had she imagination?
Would she see the value of the moment and watch herself moving through it?
Or would she live it with that feminine, unhumourous seriousness which is woman's weakness?
She had an exquisite independence, he was certain that she had humour, and he remembered how alive she had seemed to him, receptive, like a woman with ten senses.

But after all, would not her graceful sanity of view, that sense of tradition and unerring taste which he so reverenced, yet handicap her now and prevent her from daring whatever she must dare?
Amory was beside himself.

It was all very well to feel a great sympathy for St.George, but the sight was more than journalistic flesh and blood could look upon with sympathetic calm.
"An American girl!" he breathed in spite of himself.

"Why, St.
George, if we can leave this island alive--" "Well, _you_ won't," St.George explained, with brutal directness, "unless you can cut that." Before silence had again fallen, the prime minister, all his fever of importance still upon him, once more faced the audience.