Anything had been possible for him at that time--any degree of love, any devotion, any generous renunciation.

Clear-sighted, master of himself, he saw love before him, and knew it when he saw it; recognised it, was ready for it, offered it, emboldened by her soft hands so eloquent in his.
And in his arms he held it for an instant, he thought, spite of the sudden inertia, spite of the according of cold lips and hands still colder, relaxed, inert; held it until he doubted.

That was all; he had been wise to doubt such sudden miracles as that.

She, consummate and charming, had soon set him right.

And, after all, she liked him; and she had been sure enough of herself to permit the impulse of a moment to carry her with him--a little way, a very little way--merely to the formal symbol of a passion the germ of which she recognised in him.
Then she had become intelligent again, with a little laughter, a little malice, a becoming tint of hesitation and confusion; all the sense, all the arts, all the friendly sweetness of a woman thorough in training, schooled in self-possession, clear enough to be audacious and perverse without danger to herself, to the man, or to the main chance.
Standing there alone in his lighted room, he wondered whether, had her trained and inbred policy been less precise, less worldly, she might have responded to such a man as he.