She sat as if about to 'write; her eyes were drooped, and her mouth had set itself hard.

Wilfrid affected to turn over papers in search for something, still standing before the table.
'You find it difficult to begin,' he said.

'Pray call him "dear sir." Society depends upon that "dear."' 'A word easily used,' remarked Beatrice, in a low' voice, as if she were thinking.
He cast a glance at her, then seated himself.

He was at the side of the table, she at the end.

After a moment of silence, she leaned forward to him.
'Wilfrid,' she said, trying to smile, 'what letters are those, dear ?' 'Of what possible moment can that be to you, Beatrice ?' 'It seems--I can't help thinking they are--letters which you value particularly.