'I wonder whether we ought to close the windows; are you afraid of the air ?' 'Oh, leave them open!' Beatrice replied.

'It is so close.' Her cheeks had a higher colour than usual; she lay back in the chair with face turned upwards, her eyes dreaming.
'You are tired, I am afraid,' Mrs.Rossall said, 'in spite of your sleep in the hammock.

The first day in the country always tires me dreadfully.' 'Yes, I suppose I am, a little,' murmured Beatrice.
'Not too tired, I hope, to sing,' said Wilfrid, coming from his couch in the corner to a nearer seat.

His way of speaking was not wholly natural; like his attitude, it had something constrained; he seemed to be discharging a duty.
'Observe the selfishness of youth,' remarked Mr.Athel.
'Age, I dare say, has its selfishness too in the present instance,' was Mrs.Rossall's rejoinder.
'To whom does that refer ?' questioned her brother, jocosely.
Beatrice turned her head suddenly towards Emily.
'Shall I sing, Miss Hood ?' she asked, with a touch of her _ingenue_ manner, though the playfulness of her words rang strangely.
'It will give me much pleasure to hear you,' was the sober reply, coming after an instant of embarrassment.
Beatrice rose.

Her movement across the room had a union of conscious stateliness and virgin grace which became her style of beauty; it was in itself the introduction to fine music.