He was at first too pleased even to sit down; he measured the great space from end to end, admiring again everything he had admired before and protesting afresh that no modern ingenuity--not even his own, to which he did justice--could create effects of such purity.

The final touch in the picture before them was just the composer's ignorance.

Mr.Longdon had not made his house, he had simply lived it, and the "taste" of the place--Mitchy in certain connexions abominated the word--was just nothing more than the beauty of his life.
Everything on every side had dropped straight from heaven, with nowhere a bargaining thumb-mark, a single sign of the shop.

All this would have been a wonderful theme for discourse in Buckingham Crescent--so happy an exercise for the votaries of that temple of analysis that he repeatedly spoke of their experience of it as crying aloud for Mrs.Brook.

The questions it set in motion for the perceptive mind were exactly those that, as he said, most made them feel themselves.