He was as tender, as chivalrous, as noble as she had believed him to be.

The Dream was true; and yet in spite of its truthfulness, it seemed to evaporate slowly while she sat there in Jane's pink satin chair and looked out at the sunlight.

Only the restlessness, the inappeasable longing in her heart had not changed.
Looking across the hall into the library she could see the old French mirror reflecting the bronze candelabra, with crystal pendants, and the thought flitted into her brain: "It is all real.

I am here, talking to Arthur.

It is every bit true." But her words failed to convince her, and she had a curious sensation of vagueness and thinness, as if their low, gentle voices were issuing from shadows.
"I should like to show you some of our improvements," he said presently, with a faintly perceptible ripple of animation.