After the lonely months there was delight in the clasp of a friend's hand, in the glance of a friend's eye, in the sound of a friend's voice speaking her name.

Life appeared divinely precious at the instant; and by life she meant not happiness, not even fulfilment, but the very web, the very texture and pattern of experience.
"You're better already," he said, with a solicitude that was more intoxicating than wine to her.

"How I wish I'd known all summer that you were here.

I might have done something to make you happy, and now I've missed my chance." "I don't think I've ever been so happy as I am to-night," she answered simply, and then after a pause she let fall word by word, "After all, it takes so little to make me happy." "One can tell that to look at you.

You have the air of happiness.