It is an Occidental point of view. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. But he may remain with you if he pleases: I sha'n't hinder him. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. She was furiously angry. —'We'll do it,' said they, filling their glasses, and looking as fierce as King George's grenadier guards; 'here's your health, Mint. Probably she mistook you; probably she thought you cared.
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