Old stories of pain"-- he looked out upon the lawn, white where the chestnut blossoms were dropping, and his eyes were just wistful enough to stir her adoration--"and of heroism that is quite dateless in the history of the human heart.

At least one likes to hope so." "I somehow think," she ventured timidly, "that yours would be classic." Finlay withdrew his glance abruptly from the falling blossoms as if they had tempted him to an expansion he could not justify.

He was impatient always of the personal note, and in his intercourse with Miss Murchison he seemed of late to be constantly sounding it.
"Oh, I don't know," he said, almost irritably.

"I only meant that I see the obvious things, while you seem to have an eye for the subtle.
There's reward, I suppose, in seeing anything.

But about those more delicate appreciations of societies longer evolved, I sometimes think that you don't half realize, in a country like this, how much there is to make up." "Is there anything really to make up ?" she asked.
"Oh, so much! Freedom from old habits, inherited problems: look at the absurd difficulty they have in England in handling such a matter as education! Here you can't even conceive it--the schools have been on logical lines from the beginning, or almost.