Inside, a ray of sunlight stretched across the polished floor, and gleams of brightness rested on the rows of books and somber paneling.

Brantholme was old, but modern art had added comfort and toned down its austerity; and George, fresh from the northern snow peaks, was conscious of its restful atmosphere.
In the meanwhile, he was listening for a footstep.

Sylvia, he had been told, would be with him in two or three minutes; he had already been expecting her for a quarter of an hour.

This, however, did not surprise him: Sylvia was rarely punctual, and until she married Marston, he had been accustomed to await her pleasure.
She came at length, clad in a thin black dress that fitted her perfectly; and he rose and stood looking at her while his heart beat fast.

Sylvia was slight of figure, but curiously graceful, and her normal expression was one of innocent candor.