There was nothing in what he said.

He only 'knew what he liked,' and an unfriendly bystander would have been amused by his constant assumption that Nelly's sketches were as good as anybody's.

Entirely modest for himself, he was inclined to be conceited for her, she checking him, with rather flushed cheeks.

But Farrell liked him all the better, both for the ignorance and the pride.

The two young people standing there together, so evidently absorbed in each other, yet on the brink of no ordinary parting, touched the romantic note in him.