"They seemed very happy." "Well," said Hirst, pursing up his lips, "so long as I needn't marry either of them--" "We were very much moved," said Hewet.
"I thought you would be," said Hirst.

"Which was it, Monk?
The thought of the immortal passions, or the thought of new-born males to keep the Roman Catholics out?
I assure you," he said to Helen, "he's capable of being moved by either." Rachel was a good deal stung by his banter, which she felt to be directed equally against them both, but she could think of no repartee.
"Nothing moves Hirst," Hewet laughed; he did not seem to be stung at all.

"Unless it were a transfinite number falling in love with a finite one--I suppose such things do happen, even in mathematics." "On the contrary," said Hirst with a touch of annoyance, "I consider myself a person of very strong passions." It was clear from the way he spoke that he meant it seriously; he spoke of course for the benefit of the ladies.
"By the way, Hirst," said Hewet, after a pause, "I have a terrible confession to make.

Your book--the poems of Wordsworth, which if you remember I took off your table just as we were starting, and certainly put in my pocket here--" "Is lost," Hirst finished for him.
"I consider that there is still a chance," Hewet urged, slapping himself to right and left, "that I never did take it after all." "No," said Hirst.

"It is here." He pointed to his breast.
"Thank God," Hewet exclaimed.