Sidwell was exquisite in dark colours, her sister in white.

Miss Moorhouse (addressed by her friends as 'Sylvia') looked older than in the day-time, and had lost something of her animation; possibly the country routine had begun to weary her a little.
Peak was at a vast distance from the hour which saw him alight at Exeter and begin his ramble about the city.

He no longer felt himself alone in the world; impossible to revive the mood in which he deliberately planned to consume his economies in a year or two of desert wandering; far other were the anticipations which warmed his mind when the after-dinner repose attuned him to unwonted hopefulness.
This family were henceforth his friends, and it depended only upon himself to make the connection lasting, with all manner of benefits easily imagined.

Established in the country, the Warricombes stood to him in quite a different relation from any that could have arisen had he met with them in London.

There he would have been nothing more than a casual dinner-guest, welcomed for the hour and all but forgotten when he had said good-night.