Miss Chyne noted them herself with care, and not without a few deft touches to hair and dress.

When Jack Meredith entered the room she was standing near the window, holding back the curtain with one hand and watching, half shyly, for his advent.
What struck her at once was his gravity; and he must have seen the droop in her eyes, for he immediately assumed the pleasant, half-reckless smile which the world of London society had learnt to associate with his name.
He played the lover rather well, with that finish and absence of self-consciousness which only comes from sincerity; and when Miss Chyne found opportunity to look at him a second time she was fully convinced that she loved him.

She was, perhaps, carried off her feet a little--metaphorically speaking, of course--by his evident sincerity.
At that moment she would have done anything that he had asked her.

The pleasures of society, the social amenities of aristocratic life, seemed to have vanished suddenly into thin air, and only love was left.

She had always known that Jack Meredith was superior in a thousand ways to all her admirers.