It was more wonderful than she could have told; it was for all the world as if she was succeeding with him beyond her intention.

She had, for these instants, the sense that he exaggerated, that the imputation of purpose had fairly risen too high in him.

She had begun, a year ago, by asking herself how she could make him think more of her; but what was it, after all, he was thinking now?
He kept his eyes on her telegram; he read it more than once, easy as it was, in spite of its conveyed deprecation, to understand; during which she found herself almost awestruck with yearning, almost on the point of marking somehow what she had marked in the garden at Fawns with Charlotte--that she had truly come unarmed.

She didn't bristle with intentions--she scarce knew, as he at this juncture affected her, what had become of the only intention she had come with.

She had nothing but her old idea, the old one he knew; she hadn't the ghost of another.