When a passion is not realised, he thought, it fades away, or becomes ideal worship -- Dante--Petrarch--that sort of thing! It could never fade away in this case, he was sure.

How pretty she was, how lovely her mouth was when she smiled! She had no prejudices, apparently; no affectations; how she played and sang that song again when he asked her! With what a delightful sense of humour she had dealt with him, and also with Bruce, at the Mitchells.

Ottley must be a little difficult sometimes.

She had read and thought; she had the same tastes as he.

He wondered if she would have liked that thing in _The Academy_, on Gardens, that he had just read.