The ostler thought he was confoundedly
imperious, considering his machine.
AT BOGNOR
XXI
That seductive gentleman, Bechamel, had been working up to a
crisis. He had started upon this elopement in a vein of fine
romance, immensely proud of his wickedness, and really as much in
love as an artificial oversoul can be, with Jessie. But either
she was the profoundest of coquettes or she had not the slightest
element of Passion (with a large P) in her composition. It warred
with all his ideas of himself and the feminine mind to think that
under their flattering circumstances she really could be so
vitally deficient. He found her persistent coolness, her more or
less evident contempt for himself, exasperating in the highest
degree. He put it to himself that she was enough to provoke a
saint, and tried to think that was piquant and enjoyable, but the
blisters on his vanity asserted themselves. The fact is, he was,
under this standing irritation, getting down to the natural man
in himself for once, and the natural man in himself, in spite of
Oxford and the junior Reviewers' Club, was a Palaeolithic
creature of simple tastes and violent methods. "I'll be level
with you yet," ran like a plough through the soil of his
thoughts.
Then there was this infernal detective. Bechamel had told his
wife he was going to Davos to see Carter. To that he had fancied
she was reconciled, but how she would take this exploit was
entirely problematical. She was a woman of peculiar moral views,
and she measured marital infidelity largely by its proximity to
herself.
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