He looked at her long and adoringly, not, as he thought, because he adored her, but because it was thus that look should answer look; he pressed her wet eyes reverently because thus it was written in his delicious part; his heart throbbed with hers that they might beat in time.

He did not love, but he was the perfect lover; he was the artist trying in a mad moment to be as well as to do.

Love was their theme; but how to know what was said when between lovers it is only the loose change of conversation that gets into words?
The important matters cannot wait so slow a messenger; while the tongue is being charged with them, a look, a twitch of the mouth, a movement of a finger, transmits the story, and the words arrive, like Bluecher, when the engagement is over.
With a sudden pretty gesture--ah, so like her mother's!--she held the glove to his lips.

"It is sad because you have forgotten it." "I have kissed it so often, Grizel, long before I thought I should ever kiss you!" She pressed it to her innocent breast at that.

And had he really done so?
and which was the first time, and the second, and the third?
Oh, dear glove, you know so much, and your partner lies at home in a drawer knowing nothing.