By some subtle, fine essence in his own nature, he seemed to extract the best aroma from every other; and better than most conversation was it to look at his kindly, earnest, listening face, as, in the pauses of politeness, Christian did look more than once; and a thrill shot through her, the consciousness, dear to every woman, of being proud of her husband.

Ay, whether she loved him, or not, she was certainly proud of him.
In all good hearts, love's root is in goodness.

Deeper than even love itself is that ideal sense of being satisfied--satisfied in all one's moral nature, in the craving of one's soul after what seems nearest perfection.
And though in many cases poor human hearts are so weak, or strong-- which is it ?--that we cling to imperfectness, and love it simply because we love it with a sort of passionate pity, ever hoping to have its longings realized, still this kind of love is not _the_ love which exalts, strengthens, glorifies.

Sooner or later it must die the death.

It had no root, and it withers away whereas, let there be a root and ever such a small budding of leaves, sometimes merciful nature makes it grow.
Christian looked at her husband many times, stealthily, whenever he did not notice her.