It was a gift out of his childhood to his shy, unfriended youth, but he understood that if ever its walls should waver and rise again to enclose his dreams, there would be no Princess.

Never any more.

Princesses were for fairy tales; girls wanted Things.

There was his mother too--he had wished so to get her a new dress this winter.
It was an ache to him to cut off yards and yards of handsome stuffs at Mr.Greenslet's, and all the longing in the world had not availed to get one of them for his mother.

Plainly the mastery of Things was accomplished by being rich; he was on his way to Mr.Dassonville to find out how it was done.
It was quite four of the clock when he paused at the bottom of the Dassonville lawn to look up at the lace curtains at the tall French windows.