Then they talked about hands.
"You've got awfully nice hands," she said.

"They look as if you played the piano.

Do you ?" I have said they had reached a very definite stage--nay, more, a very critical stage.

Amory had stayed over a day to see her, and his train left at twelve-eighteen that night.

His trunk and suitcase awaited him at the station; his watch was beginning to hang heavy in his pocket.
"Isabelle," he said suddenly, "I want to tell you something." They had been talking lightly about "that funny look in her eyes," and Isabelle knew from the change in his manner what was coming--indeed, she had been wondering how soon it would come.