And with it went a brooding sense of delight in Gerald's mere presence, a sense of delight in even the pain that his indifference inflicted upon her.
He charmed her unspeakably--his voice, his smile, his gestures--and she knew that she did not charm him in any way, and that Lady Pickering, in her very foolishness, did charm him, and the knowledge made her very grave and careful when she was with him.

Delight and pain were hidden beneath this manner of careful gravity, but, as the excitement of Franklin's presence had at first done--and in how much greater degree--they subtly transformed her; made her look and speak and move with a different languor and gentleness.
Gerald himself was the first to feel a change, the first to become aware of an aroma of mystery.

He had been indifferent indeed, though he had obeyed Helen and had tried not only to be very courteous but to be very nice as well.

Now, finding Althea's grave eyes upon him when he sometimes yielded to Lady Pickering's allurements, finding them turned away with that look of austere mildness, he ceased to be so indifferent, he began to wonder how much the little Puritan disapproved and how much she really minded; he began to make surmises about the state of mind that could be so aloof, so gentle, and so inflexible.
He met Althea one afternoon in the garden and walked up and down with her while she filled her basket with roses.

She was very gentle, and immeasurably distant.