Little Miss Alice has begun to look very worn." Constance walked on, her eyes on the ground.

He could see the soft lace on her breast fluttering.

What foolish quixotry--what jealousy for an ideal--had made him run this hideous risk of offending her?
He held his breath till she should look at him again.

When she did, the beauty of the look abashed him.
"Thank you!" she said quietly.

"Thank you very much.