Had it brought her happiness, or content, or joy?
It had brought her excitement--much of that--and elation, and opportunity to do a thousand things, and to fatigue herself in a thousand ways; but had it brought happiness?
If it had, the face of this man who was once so much to her, and whom she had flung into outer darkness, was sufficient to cast a cloud over it.

She felt herself grow suddenly weak, but she determined to go out of the place without appearing to see him.
He was conscious of it all, saw it out of a corner of his eye, and as she started forward, he turned, deliberately walked towards her, and, with a cheerful smile, held out his hand.
"Now, what good fortune!" he said, spiritedly.

"Life plays no tricks, practices no deception this time.

In a book she'd have made us meet on a grand staircase or at a court ball." As he said this, he shook her hand warmly, and again and again, as would be fitting with old friends.

He had determined to be master of the situation, and to turn the moment to the credit of his account--not hers; and it was easy to do it, for love was dead, and the memory of love atrophied.
Colour came back to her face.