And Felix, standing there and meditating, had the apparent brutality to take satisfaction in her tears.
Late that night Gertrude, silent and serious, came to him in the garden; it was a kind of appointment.

Gertrude seemed to like appointments.
She plucked a handful of heliotrope and stuck it into the front of her dress, but she said nothing.

They walked together along one of the paths, and Felix looked at the great, square, hospitable house, massing itself vaguely in the starlight, with all its windows darkened.
"I have a little of a bad conscience," he said.

"I ought n't to meet you this way till I have got your father's consent." Gertrude looked at him for some time.

"I don't understand you." "You very often say that," he said.