This counted, it struck him as he walked beside her with his overcoat on an arm, his umbrella under another and his personal pasteboard a little stiffly retained between forefinger and thumb, this struck him as really, in comparison his introduction to things.

It hadn't been "Europe" at Liverpool no--not even in the dreadful delightful impressive streets the night before--to the extent his present companion made it so.

She hadn't yet done that so much as when, after their walk had lasted a few minutes and he had had time to wonder if a couple of sidelong glances from her meant that he had best have put on gloves she almost pulled him up with an amused challenge.
"But why--fondly as it's so easy to imagine your clinging to it--don't you put it away?
Or if it's an inconvenience to you to carry it, one's often glad to have one's card back.

The fortune one spends in them!" Then he saw both that his way of marching with his own prepared tribute had affected her as a deviation in one of those directions he couldn't yet measure, and that she supposed this emblem to be still the one he had received from her.

He accordingly handed her the card as if in restitution, but as soon as she had it she felt the difference and, with her eyes on it, stopped short for apology.