If there was nothing boyish or unfeminine about her, there was certainly an indefinable appearance of being untouched, unawakened.

She was the same girl who had been found by Martin that afternoon clean-cut against the sky--the determined individualist.
Alice sat in front of her on a low stool with her hands clasped round a knee.

"What a queer mixture you are of--of town and country, Joany.
You're like a piece of honeysuckle playing at being an orchid." "That's because I'm a kid," said Joan.

"The horrible hour will come when I shall be an orchid and try and palm myself off as honeysuckle, never fear." "Don't you think marriage has changed you a little ?" asked Alice.

"It usually does.