"Perhaps older, you know, or--or sadder." Lady Mary's white face flushed scarlet from brow to chin; but Peter, occupied with his monocle, observed nothing.
"I'd prepared myself for that," he said, "and to find you all in black.

And--" "I threw off my mourning," she murmured, "the very day I heard you were coming home." She paused, and added hurriedly, "It was very thoughtless.

I'm sorry; I ought to have thought of your feelings, my darling." "Aunt Isabella has never changed hers, has she ?" said Peter.
"Aunt Isabella is a good deal more conventional than I am; and a great many years older," said Lady Mary, tremulously.
"I don't see what that has to do with it," said Peter.
She turned away, and began to gather up her scattered roses.

A few moments since the roses had been less than nothing to her.

What were roses, what was anything, compared to Peter?
Now they crept back into their own little place in creation; their beauty and fragrance dumbly conveyed a subtle comfort to her soul, as she lovingly laid one against another, until a glowing bouquet of coppery golden hue was formed.