But Newman made vague answers; he hardly heard her, his thoughts were elsewhere.

They were lost in a cheerful sense of success, of attainment and victory.

His momentary care as to whether he looked like a fool passed away, leaving him simply with a rich contentment.
He had got what he wanted.

The savor of success had always been highly agreeable to him, and it had been his fortune to know it often.

But it had never before been so sweet, been associated with so much that was brilliant and suggestive and entertaining.