He was pleased with everything; he had never before been pleased with so many things at once.

Old impressions, old enjoyments, renewed themselves; one evening, going home to his room at the inn, he wrote down a little sonnet to which he prefixed the title of "Rome Revisited." A day or two later he showed this piece of correct and ingenious verse to Isabel, explaining to her that it was an Italian fashion to commemorate the occasions of life by a tribute to the muse.
He took his pleasures in general singly; he was too often--he would have admitted that--too sorely aware of something wrong, something ugly; the fertilising dew of a conceivable felicity too seldom descended on his spirit.

But at present he was happy--happier than he had perhaps ever been in his life, and the feeling had a large foundation.

This was simply the sense of success--the most agreeable emotion of the human heart.

Osmond had never had too much of it; in this respect he had the irritation of satiety, as he knew perfectly well and often reminded himself.