“I am more inclined to punish Hurtiancz for his crassness,” said Ildefonse. “But now he simulates a swinish stupidity to escape my anger.” “Absolute falsity!” roared Hurtiancz. “I simulate nothing!” Ildefonse shrugged. “For all his deficiencies as polemicist and magician, Hurtiancz at least is candid.”
In dress, habits, manners, provincialism, routine and narrowness, he acquired that charming insolence, that irritating completeness, that sophisticated crassness, that overbalanced poise that makes the Manhattan gentleman so delightfully small in his greatness.