I took her hand, yes; but it had now none of answering clasp.
The flush was on her cheek no more.

Cool, pale, sweet, all white now, armed cap-a-pie with indifference, she looked at me as formally as though I were a remote acquaintance.

Then she would have passed.
"Elisabeth," I began; "I am just back.

I have not had time--I have had no leave from you to come to see you--to ask you--to explain--" "Explain ?" she said evenly.
"But surely you can not believe that I--" "I only believe what seems credible, Mr.Trist." "But you promised--that very morning you agreed--Were you out of your mind, that--" "I was out of my mind that morning--but not that evening." Now she was _grande demoiselle_, patrician, superior.

Suddenly I became conscious of the dullness of my own garb.