She had made herself a charming home, her economies were not obtrusive, and there was always a cheerful flutter in the folds of her crape.

It was the consciousness of all this that puzzled Mallet whenever he felt tempted to put in his oar.

He had money and he had time, but he never could decide just how to place these gifts gracefully at Cecilia's service.
He no longer felt like marrying her: in these eight years that fancy had died a natural death.

And yet her extreme cleverness seemed somehow to make charity difficult and patronage impossible.

He would rather chop off his hand than offer her a check, a piece of useful furniture, or a black silk dress; and yet there was some sadness in seeing such a bright, proud woman living in such a small, dull way.