He was over thirty, she verging on that prosaic age.

Both had lived and moved in the world; to both life was an open book, and they had probably discovered, as most of us do, that the larger number of the leaves are blank.

He had almost told her that he was engaged to be married, and she had quite understood.

There could not possibly be any misapprehension; there was no room for one of those little mistakes about which people write novels and fondly hope that some youthful reader may be carried away by a very faint resemblance to that which they hold to be life.

Moreover, at thirty, one leaves the first romance of youth behind.
There was something in her smile that suggested that she did not quite believe in his cynicism.
"Also," she said gravely, "some stronger influence might appear--an influence which I could not counteract." Jack Meredith turned in his long chair and looked at her searchingly.
"I have a vague idea," he said, "that you are thinking of Durnovo." "I am," she admitted, with some surprise.