"He's mine.

For one golden moment he's mine!" They spoke--and, suddenly, the every-day blind was drawn down again; there was nobody present but a well-bred woman, talking with delicately implied deference to a distinguished man.
"So far, we have not spoken of the birds," Ovid innocently answered.
"And yet you seemed to be both looking at them!" She at once covered this unwary outbreak of jealousy under an impervious surface of compliment.

"Miss Carmina is not perhaps exactly pretty, but she is a singularly interesting girl." Ovid cordially (too cordially) agreed.

Miss Minerva had presented her better self to him under a most agreeable aspect.

She tried--struggled--fought with herself--to preserve appearances.