But over the edge of the book, or from the page of crabbed accounts, her eyes would glance continually towards the handsome pair in the window-place, and she would smile as she saw that it went well.

Only they never saw the glances or noted the smile.

When Geoffrey looked that way, which was not often, for Elizabeth--old Elizabeth, as he always called her to himself--did not attract him, all he saw was her sharp but capable-looking form bending over her work, and the light of the candle gleaming on her straw-coloured hair and falling in gleaming white patches on her hard knuckles.
And so the happy day would pass and bed-time come, and with it unbidden dreams.
Geoffrey thought no ill of all this, as of course he ought to have thought.

He was not the ravening lion of fiction--so rarely, if ever, to be met with in real life--going about seeking whom he might devour.

He had absolutely no designs on Beatrice's affections, any more than she had on his, and he had forgotten that first fell prescience of evil to come.