They were of the colour--of what on earth?
of what but the extraordinary American good faith?
They were of the colour of her innocence, and yet at the same time of her imagination, with which their relation, his and these people's, was all suffused.

What he had further said on the occasion of which we thus represent him as catching the echoes from his own thoughts while he loitered--what he had further said came back to him, for it had been the voice itself of his luck, the soothing sound that was always with him.

"You Americans are almost incredibly romantic." "Of course we are.

That's just what makes everything so nice for us." "Everything ?" He had wondered.
"Well, everything that's nice at all.

The world, the beautiful, world--or everything in it that is beautiful.