This sense had grown, since the day before, the more he recalled her, and had been above all singularly fed by his talk with Chad in the morning.
Everything in fine made her immeasurably new, and nothing so new as the old house and the old objects.

There were books, two or three, on a small table near his chair, but they hadn't the lemon-coloured covers with which his eye had begun to dally from the hour of his arrival and to the opportunity of a further acquaintance with which he had for a fortnight now altogether succumbed.

On another table, across the room, he made out the great _Revue_; but even that familiar face, conspicuous in Mrs.Newsome's parlours, scarce counted here as a modern note.

He was sure on the spot--and he afterwards knew he was right--that this was a touch of Chad's own hand.

What would Mrs.Newsome say to the circumstance that Chad's interested "influence" kept her paper-knife in the _Revue_?
The interested influence at any rate had, as we say, gone straight to the point--had in fact soon left it quite behind.
She was seated, near the fire, on a small stuffed and fringed chair one of the few modern articles in the room, and she leaned back in it with her hands clasped in her lap and no movement, in all her person, but the fine prompt play of her deep young face.