His manners refined and fascinating.

His age?
About thirty.

Poor Amy! Of course common humanity requires her to come and see that he does not suffer.

Of course he is desperately in love, and she can only pity.

Pity?
pity?
Who says something about the kinship of pity?
I really think, says Lawrence Newt to himself, that I ought to go over and help that unfortunate young man.