"It wouldn't be so very different--a flat," she said shyly.
Wouldn't it--wouldn't it, after all, be so very different?
"Ah, if you only think so, really," cried St.George.
"But it will be different, just different enough to like better," she admitted then.

"You know that I think so," she said.
"If only you knew how much I think so," he told her, "how I have thought so, day and night, since that first minute at the Boris.
Olivia, dear heart--when did you think so first--" She shook her head and laid her hands upon his and drew them to her face.
"Now, now--now!" she cried, "and there never was any time but now." "But there will be--there will be," he said, his lips upon her hair.
After a time--for Time, that seems to have no boundaries in the abstract, is a very fiend for bounding the divine concrete--after a time Amory spoke hesitatingly on the other side of the curtain of many dyes.
"St.George," he said, "I'm afraid they want you.

Mr.Holland--the king, he's got through playing them.

He wants you to get up and give 'em the truth, I think." "Come in--come in, Amory," St.George said and lifted the curtain, and "I beg your pardon," he added, as his eyes fell upon Antoinette in a gown of colours not to be lightly denominated.

She had followed Olivia from the hall, and had met Amory midway the avenue of prickly trees, and they had helpfully been keeping guard.