She knew from his smile that he was perfectly indifferent to her resentment, that he was even momentarily entertained by it, and the knowledge enraged her.

The glance he gave her was as impersonal as the glance he gave Miss Polly or the rose-bush or the street with its casual stream of pedestrians.

It was the glance of a man who had lived deeply, and to whom living meant action and achievement rather than criticism or philosophy.

He would not judge her, she understood, simply because his mind was not in the habit of judging.

His interest in her was merely a part of his intense, zestful interest in life.