He preferred the sweet, pure lily to the queenly rose.
Still he said to himself that he had never seen a face or figure like Miss L'Estrange's.

No wonder that she had half London at her feet.
He was pleased with her kind reception of him, although he had not read her welcome aright; he was too true a gentleman even to think that it was love which shone in her eyes and trembled on her lips--love which made her voice falter and die away--love which caused her to exert every art and grace of which she was mistress to fascinate him.

He was delighted with her--his heart grew warm under the charm of her words, but he never dreamed of love.
He had said to himself that there must be no renewal of his childish nonsense of early days--that he must be careful not to allude to it; to do so would be in bad taste--not that he was vain enough to think she would attach any importance to it, even if he did so; but he was one of nature's gentlemen, and he would have scorned to exaggerate or to say one word more than he meant.

Her welcome had been most graceful, most kind--the beautiful face had softened and changed completely for him.
She had devoted herself entirely to him; nothing in all the wide world had seemed to her of the least interest except himself and his affairs--books, music, pictures, even herself, her own triumphs, were as nothing when compared with him.

He would have been less than mortal not to have been both pleased and flattered.
Pressed so earnestly to return to dinner, he had promised to do so; and evening, the sweet-scented May evening, found him once more at Hyde Park.