On the occasion of my first call, I referred, naturally, to the fact of her removal from New York, and asked how she liked the change.
"I don't like it all, Doctor," she replied, in a dissatisfied tone.
"Could heart desire more of elegance and comfort than you possess ?" I glanced around the richly decorated apartment in which we were seated.
"Gilded misery, Doctor!" She emphasized her words.
I looked at her without speaking.

She understood my expression of surprise.
"I need not tell you, Doctor, that a fine house and fine furniture are not everything in this world." I thought her waking up to a better state of mind, through the irrepressible yearnings of a soul that could find no sustenance amid the husks of this outer life.
"They go but a little way towards making up the aggregate of human happiness," said I.
"All well enough in their place.

But, to my thinking, sadly out of place here.

We must have society, Doctor." "True." My voice was a little rough.

I had mistaken her.
"But there is no society here!" And she tossed her head a little contemptuously.
"Not much fashionable society I will grant you, Delia." She pursed up her lips and looked disagreeable.
"I shall die of ennui before six months.