But, except for the young birds, it was a silent place.
I had much business to carry through and saw the rest of our company only at luncheon time; it was after luncheon that I had a little conversation with Marie Ivanovna.

She chose me quite deliberately from the others, moved our chairs to the quieter end of the little balcony where we were, planted her elbows on the table and stared into my face with her large round credulous eyes.

(I find on looking back, that I have already used exactly those adjectives.

That may stand: I mean that, emphatically, and beyond every other impression she made, her gaze declared that she was ready to believe anything that she were told, and the more in the telling the better.) She spoke, as always, with that sense of restrained, sharply disciplined excitement, as though her eager vitality were some splendid if ferocious animal struggling at its chain.
"You talked to John--Mr.Trenchard--last night," she said.
"Yes," I said, smiling into her eyes.
"I know--all night--he told me.

He's splendid, isn't he?
Splendid!" "I like him very much," I answered.
"Ah! you must! you must! You must all like him! You don't know--his thoughts, his ideals--they are wonderful.