Such an edge was there in Mary's voice when she greeted him.

About her seemed to hang the mist of the winter hedges, and the clear red of the bramble leaves.

He felt himself at once stepping on to the firm ground of an entirely different world, but he did not allow himself to yield to the pleasure of it directly.

They gave him his choice of driving with Edward or of walking home across the fields with Mary--not a shorter way, they explained, but Mary thought it a nicer way.

He decided to walk with her, being conscious, indeed, that he got comfort from her presence.