He found the Goodwards, not in the expensive caravansary in which he installed himself, but in a smaller tributary house set back from the main hotel though not quite disconnected with it; for quiet, Mrs.Goodward told him, though he guessed quite as much from economy.
"It's wonderful, really, what they do with so little," Clarice, with her fine discriminations in the obligations of friendship, had generously let him know.

"Eunice hasn't anything, positively not _any_thing in comparison with what people of her class usually have.

And with her taste, you know, there must be things she's just aching for, that somehow you can't give her." You couldn't, indeed.

Though Peter made excuses enough for giving her the use of his car, and giving it to her shorn even of the implication of his society, there were few occasions when he could do even so much as that.

He couldn't even give her his appreciations.
For at Fairport the Goodwards were quite in the heart of all that Peter himself failed to understand that he couldn't possibly be.