"Well," said he, after another pause. "I was n’t going to have Fearns coming the duke over me!" She smiled sympathetically. He felt that they understood each other deeply. "You ’ll find some cigarettes in that box," she said, when he had been there thirty minutes, and pointed to the mantelpiece. "Sure you don’t mind?" he murmured. She raised her eyebrows. There was also a silver match-box in the larger box. No detail lacked. It seemed to him that he stood on a mountain and had only to walk down a winding path in order to enter the promised land. He was decidedly pleased with the worldly way in which he had said: "Sure you don’t mind?" He puffed out smoke delicately. And, the cigarette between his lips, as with his left hand he waved the match into extinction, he demanded: "You smoke?" "Yes," she said, "but not in public. I know what you men are." This was in the early, timid days of feminine smoking. "I assure you!" he protested, and pushed the box towards her. But she would not smoke. "It is n’t that I mind _you_," she said, "not at all. But I ’m not well. I ’ve got a frightful headache." He put on a concerned expression. "I _thought_ you looked rather pale," he said awkwardly. "Pale!" she repeated the word. "You should have seen me this morning! I have fits of dizziness, you know, too. The doctor says its nothing but dyspepsia. However, don’t let’s talk about poor little me and my silly complaints. Perhaps the tea will do me good." He protested again, but his experience of intimate civilisation was too brief to allow him to protest with effectiveness. The truth was, he could not say these things naturally. He had to compose them, and then pronounce them, and the result failed in the necessary air of spontaneity. He could not help thinking what marvellous self-control women had. Now when he had a headache—which happily was seldom—he could think of nothing else and talk of nothing else; the entire universe consisted solely of his headache. And here she was overcome with a headache and during more than half an hour had not even mentioned it! She began talking gossip about the Fearnses and the Sweetnams, and she mentioned rumours concerning Henry Mynors (who had scruples against dancing) and Anna Tellwright, the daughter of that rich old skinflint, Ephraim Tellwright. No mistake; she was on the inside of things in Bursley society! It was just as if she had removed the front walls of every house and examined every room at her leisure, with minute particularity. But of course a teacher of dancing had opportunities.... Denry had to pretend to be nearly as omniscient as she was. Then she broke off, without warning, and lay back in her chair. "I wonder if you ’d mind going into the barn for me?" she murmured. She generally referred to her academy as the barn. It had once been a warehouse. He jumped up. "Certainly," he said, very eager.