Some minutes passed before either of us cared to speak.

Probably as she rested her head on my arm and looked into my eyes, each read the other's character more truly and clearly than words the most frank and open could ever enable us to do.

I had taught her last night a few substitutes in the softest tongue I knew for those words of natural tenderness in which her language is signally deficient: taught her to understand them, certainly not to use them, for it was long before I could even induce her to address me by name.
"My father bade me yesterday," she said at last, "ask you in future to wear the dress of our people.

Not that you will be the less an object of attention and wonder, but that in retaining a distinction which depends entirely on your own choice, you will seem intentionally to prefer your own habits to ours." "I comply of course," I observed.

"Naturally the dress of every country is best suited to its own conditions.