The girl and I had no share in the conversation; indeed, we were clearly out of place: so she could not refuse when I proposed a walk in the garden.

The place was all cool and dewy after the scorching day, and the bells of the flowers made the air heavy with fragrance.

Somewhere near a man was playing on the flageolet, a light, pretty tune which set her feet tripping.
I asked her bluntly wherein I had offended.
"Offended!" she cried, "Why should I take offence?
I see you once in a blue moon.

You flatter yourself strangely, Mr.Garvald, if you think you are ever in my thoughts." "You are never out of mine," I said dismally.
At this she laughed, something of the old elfin laughter which I had heard on the wet moors.
"A compliment!" she cried, "To be mixed up eternally with the weights of tobacco and the prices of Flemish lace.

You are growing a very pretty courtier, sir." "I am no courtier," I said.