The two were on terms of a confidence and affection which perpetually amused Mrs.
Kenby, but which left the sympathetic witness nothing to desire in their relation.
They all came to the train when the Marches started up to London, and stood waving to them as they pulled out of the station.

"Well, I can't see but that's all right," he said as he sank back in his seat with a sigh of relief.

"I never supposed we should get out of their marriage half so well, and I don't feel that you quite made the match either, my dear." She was forced to agree with him that the Kenbys seemed happy together, and that there was nothing to fear for Rose in their happiness.

He would be as tenderly cared for by Kenby as he could have been by his mother, and far more judiciously.

She owned that she had trembled for him till she had seen them all together; and now she should never tremble again.
"Well ?" March prompted, at a certain inconclusiveness in her tone rather than her words.
"Well, you can see that it, isn't ideal." "Why isn't it ideal?
I suppose you think that the marriage of Burnamy and Agatha Triscoe will be ideal, with their ignorances and inexperiences and illusions." "Yes! It's the illusions: no marriage can be perfect without them, and at their age the Kenbys can't have them." "Kenby is a solid mass of illusion.