Happiness was not a quality with which I would ever have charged him; he had seemed to despise it as something too simple and sentimental for any but sentimental fools--but now this morning (I had noticed something of the same thing in him the evening before) he was quite _simply_ happy, looking younger by many years, the ironical curve of his lip gone, his eyes smiling, his attitude to the world gentle and almost benevolent.

Of course she, Marie Ivanovna, had wrought this change in him.

There was no doubt this morning that she loved him.

She had in her face and bearing all the pride and also all the humility that a love, won, secured, ensured, brings with it.

She did not look at him often nor take his hand.