There would have been something of reconciliation, something of a promise of future kindness in a kiss, which even Ferdinand would not have grudged.

It would, for her, have robbed the parting of that bitterness of pain which his words had given to it.

As to all that, he had made no calculation; but the bitterness was there for him, and he could have done nothing that would have expelled it.
She wept bitterly as she returned to the house.

There might have been cause for joy.

It was clear enough that her father, though he had shown no sign to her of yielding, was nevertheless prepared to yield.
It was her father who had caused Arthur Fletcher to take himself off, as a lover really dismissed.