He KNEW HOW to resort to it--he could be, on occasion, as she had lately more than ever learned, so munificent a lover: all of which was, precisely, a part of the character she had never ceased to regard in him as princely, a part of his large and beautiful ease, his genius for charm, for intercourse, for expression, for life.

She should have but to lay her head back on his shoulder with a certain movement to make it definite for him that she didn't resist.

To this, as they went, every throb of her consciousness prompted her--every throb, that is, but one, the throb of her deeper need to know where she "really" was.

By the time she had uttered the rest of her idea, therefore, she was still keeping her head and intending to keep it; though she was also staring out of the carriage-window with eyes into which the tears of suffered pain had risen, indistinguishable, perhaps, happily, in the dusk.

She was making an effort that horribly hurt her, and, as she couldn't cry out, her eyes swam in her silence.