There was a grand piano, and Lucy stood leaning back against it, looking intently at George, while her fingers, behind her, absently struck a chord or two.

And her dress was the dress for that room, being of blue and white, too; and the high colour in her cheeks was far from interfering with the general harmony of things--George saw with dismay that she was prettier than ever, and naturally he missed the reassurance he might have felt had he been able to guess that Lucy, on her part, was finding him better looking than ever.

For, however unusual the scope of George's pride, vanity of beauty was not included; he did not think about his looks.
"What's wrong, George ?" she asked softly.
"What do you mean: 'What's wrong ?" "You're awfully upset about something.

Didn't you get though your examination all right ?" "Certainly I did.

What makes you think anything's 'wrong' with me ?" "You do look pale, as papa said, and it seemed to me that the way you talked sounded--well, a little confused." "Confused'! I said I didn't care to smoke.