But it was not despair.

Not once had she whimpered in look or word, even when the tears were in her eyes, and the thought was beginning to impress itself upon him that it was he--and not Mary Standish--who had shown a yellow streak this night.

A half shame fell upon him as he smoked.

For it was clear he had not come up to her judgment of him, or else he was not so big a fool as she had hoped he might be.

In his own mind, for a time, he was at a loss to decide.
It was possibly the first time he had ever deeply absorbed himself in the analysis of a woman.