It was, last of all, the handkerchief that momentarily upset him.
Why had she dropped it at his door?
It was not a dangerous-looking affair, to be sure, with its filmy lace edging and ridiculous diminutiveness.

As the question came to him, he was wondering how even as dainty a nose as that possessed by Mary Standish could be much comforted by it.

But it was pretty.

And, like Mary Standish, there was something exquisitely quiet and perfect about it, like the simplicity of her hair.

He was not analyzing the matter.