Michael had kissed her under the thin dappled shade of the flowering tree, and she had kissed him back.
Michael's eyes turned for a long moment to the yellow weather-stained arches of the cloister, and then he looked full at Fay with a certain peculiar detached glance which had first made her endeavour to attract him.

There is a look in a man's face which women like Fay cannot endure, because it means independence of them.
"I thought," he said, with the grave simplicity which apparently was unchangeable in him whatever else might change, "that it was only I who remembered.

It has always been a comfort to me that any unhappiness which my want of forethought, my--my culpable selfishness may have caused, was borne by myself alone." "I was unhappy too," she said, speaking as simply as he.

She looked up at him suddenly as she said it.

There was a wet glint in her deep violet eyes.