There would be no more fishing excursions, no more gifts of flowers and books, no more charity calls.
The "common fellow" was free from the disturbing influence and he was glad of it--heartily glad of it.
Yet his gladness was not as apparent to others as it should, by all that was consistent, have been.

Lute, evidently, observed no traces of transcendent happiness, when I encountered him in the back yard, beside the woodpile, sharpening the kindling hatchet with a whetstone, a process peculiarly satisfying to his temperament because it took such a long time to achieve a noticeable result.
"Hello, Ros!" he hailed.

"Why! what ails you ?" "Ails me ?" I repeated, crossly.

"Nothing ails me, of course." "Well, I'm glad to hear it.

You look as if you'd lost your last friend." "I haven't lost any friends.