"Almost" was Lucy's last word on the last night of George's vacation--that vital evening which she had half consented to agree upon for "settling things" between them.

"Almost engaged," she meant.

And George, discontented with the "almost," but contented that she seemed glad to wear a sapphire locket with a tiny photograph of George Amberson Minafer inside it, found himself wonderful in a new world at the final instant of their parting.

For, after declining to let him kiss her "good-bye," as if his desire for such a ceremony were the most preposterous absurdity in the world, she had leaned suddenly close to him and left upon his cheek the veriest feather from a fairy's wing.
She wrote him a month later: No.

It must keep on being almost.
Isn't almost pretty pleasant?
You know well enough that I care for you.
I did from the first minute I saw you, and I'm pretty sure you knew it--I'm afraid you did.