She could see far beyond, down an incline, through a long clearing in the park, far away to the tower of Wrayth church.
"How beautiful it all is!" she said, with bated breath, and clasped her hands in her muff.

"And how wonderful to have the knowledge that your family has been here always, and these splendid things are their creation.

I understand that you must be a very proud man." This was almost the longest speech he had ever heard her make, in ordinary conversation--the first one that contained any of her thoughts.
He looked at her startled for a moment, but his resolutions of the night before and his mood of suspicion caused him to remain unmoved.

He was numb with the pain of being melted one moment with hope and frozen again the next; it had come to a pass now that he would not let himself respond.

She could almost have been as gracious as she pleased, out in this cold, damp air, and he would have remained aloof.
"Yes, I suppose I am a proud man," he said, "but it is not much good to me; one becomes a cynic, as one grows older." Then with casual indifference he began to explain to her all about the gardens and their dates, as they walked along, just as though he were rather bored but acting cicerone to an ordinary guest, and Zara's heart sank lower and lower, and she could not keep up her little plan to be gentle and sympathetic; she could not do more than say just "Yes," and "No." Presently they came through a door to the hothouses, and she had to be introduced to the head gardener, a Scotchman, and express her admiration of everything, and eat some wonderful grapes; and here Tristram again "played the game," and chaffed, and was gay.