"It's ever so much nicer than ours.

Oh, Lenox, it's just like breathing champagne." Redgrave looked at her with an admiration which was tempered by a sudden apprehension.

Even in his eyes she had never seemed so lovely before.
Her cheeks were glowing and her eyes were gleaming with a brightness that was almost feverish, and he was himself sensible of a strange feeling of exultation, both mental and physical, as his lungs filled with the Martian air.
"Oxygen," he said, shortly, "and too much of it! Or I shouldn't wonder if it was something like nitrous-oxide--you know, laughing gas." "Don't!" she laughed; "it may be very nice to breathe, but it reminds one of other things which aren't a bit nice.

Still, if it is anything of that sort it might account for these people having lived so fast.

I know I feel just now as if I was living at the rate of thirty-six hours a day, and so, I suppose, the fewer hours we stop here the better." "Exactly!" said Redgrave, with another glance of apprehension at her.
"Now, there's his Royal Highness, or whatever he is, coming.