Never could there be another so perfect, because so sane and comfortable, a friend.
Her debt to him was of old standing and still for ever grew.

How she could ever pay it she didn't know! Which consideration, for an instant, clouded her content.

Not that she felt the obligation irksome; but, that out of pure affection, she wanted to make him some return, some acknowledgment; wanted to give, since to her he had so lavishly given.
Then the book--of all Carteret's clever manipulations the cleverest! For hadn't it begun to grip her father, and that quite divertingly much?
He was occupied with it to the point of really being a tiny bit self-conscious and shy.

Keen on it, transparently eager--though contemptuous, in high mighty sort, of course, of his own eagerness when he remembered.

Only, more than half the time he so deliciously failed to remember .-- And with that Damaris' thought took another turn, a more private and personal one.
For in truth the book gripped her, too, in most intimate and novel fashion, revealing to her the enchantments of an art in process of being actively realized in living, constructive effort.