The colours of sweet-peas and climbing roses filled her eyes.
In that moment, she had fallen into the morass of romance, and through it all, like a gift of God, permeated the sense that it belonged to this man who had dropped like a meteor upon the cold, uncoloured world of her existence.
This is the beginning, the opening of the bud, whose petals wrapped round the heart of Sally Bishop.

Romance is the gate through which almost every woman enters into the garden of life.

Her first glimpse is the path of flowers that stretches on under the ivied archways, and there for a moment she stands, drugged with delight.
After supper that evening, Mr.Arthur followed her into the sitting-room.
"Can you spare me a few minutes ?" he asked.
His method of putting the question reminded her of Mr.Bonsfield's chief clerk--the son of a pawnbroker in Camberwell.

He assumed the same attitude of body.

Certainly Mr.Arthur did not fold his hands together before him--he did not sniff through his nostrils; but her imagination supplied these deficiencies in the likeness.
She agreed quite willingly.