I quickly ingratiated myself to Gianfrancesco, playing on his insecurities, drawing from his need for more and more power. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. It was interesting to see how different and characteristic his mode of approach was to all sorts of questions that interested her, and it was amusing to discover this other side to the life of a Morningside Park inhabitant. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. The Night-Cellar XVIII.
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