The more I chanted antistrophe to her strophe of lamentation the more was I welcome in her drawing-room.

I had not seen her for some weeks.

Perhaps I had been feeling remarkably well with nothing in the world to complain about, and therefore unequipped with a topic of conversation.

However, hearty or not, it was time for me to pay her a visit.

So I ordered the car.
Mrs.Boyce lived in a comfortable old house half a mile or so beyond the other end of the town, standing in half a dozen well-wooded acres.
It was a fair April afternoon, all pale sunshine and tenderness.