Where the average woman would have displayed pretentious emptiness, Mrs.Micklethwaite had made a home which in its way was beautiful.

The dinner, which she herself had cooked, and which she assisted in serving, aimed at being no more than a simple; decorous meal, but the guest unfeignedly enjoyed it; even the vegetables and the bread seemed to him to have a daintier flavour than at many a rich table.

He could not help noticing and admiring the skill with which Miss Wheatley ate without seeing what was before her; had he not known her misfortune, he would hardly have become aware of it by any peculiarity as she sat opposite to him.
The mathematician had learnt to sit upon a chair like ordinary mortals.
For the first week or two it must have cost him severe restraint; now he betrayed no temptation to roll and jerk and twist himself.

When the ladies retired, he reached from the sideboard a box which Barfoot viewed with uneasiness.
'Do you smoke here--in this room ?' 'Oh, why not ?' Everard glanced at the pretty curtains before the windows.
'No, my boy, you do _not_ smoke here.

And, in fact, I like your claret; I won't spoil the flavour of it.' 'As you please; but I think Fanny will be distressed.' 'You shall say that I have abandoned the weed.' Emotions were at conflict in Micklethwaite's mind, but finally he beamed with gratitude.
'Barfoot'-- he bent forward and touched his friend's arm--'there are angels walking the earth in this our day.