He had got up from the window, I know, with the intention of going out of the room, but he continued standing, looking down at me and talking, for half an hour at least.
The soft morning wind came in at the open door and window, with a scent of rose and honeysuckle: the pretty little room was full of the early sunshine in which there is no glare: I can see it all now, and I can hear, as ever, his low voice.
He talked of the book I held in my hand, of the views on the river, of the pleasantness of country life.

I fancy I did not say much, though I never am able to remember what I said when talking to him.

Whatever I said was a mere involuntary accord with him.

I never recollect to have felt that I did not agree with and admire every word he uttered.
How different his manner from last night when he had talked with Mary Leighton; all the stiffness, the half-concealed repelling tone was gone.

I had not heard him speak to any one, except perhaps once to Benny, as he spoke now.