There was nothing irretrievable, nothing irrevocable, which would for ever stain the memory and tarnish the gold of life when the perfect love should be minted.

Whatever faults of mind or disposition or character were his--or hers--there were no sins against the pledges they had made, nor the bond into which they had entered.

Life would need no sponge.

Memory might still live on without a wound or a cowl of shame.
It was all part of the music to which she listened, and she was almost oblivious of the brilliant throng, the crowded boxes, or of the Duchess of Snowdon sitting near her strangely still, now and again scanning the beautiful face beside her with a reflective look.

The Duchess loved the girl--she was but a girl, after all--as she had never loved any of her sex; it had come to be the last real interest of her life.