Also she had become curiously considerate of other people's feelings--rather subdued; less ready in her criticisms; gentler in judgments.

All of which symptoms Constance had already noted with incredulity and alarm.
"Where did you and Louis Malcourt go this afternoon ?" she asked, unpegging her hair.
"Out to the beach.

There was nothing there except sky and water, and a filthy eagle dining on a dead fish." Miss Palliser waited, sitting before her dresser; but as Virginia offered no further information she shook out the splendid masses of her chestnut hair and, leaning forward, examined her features in the mirror with minute attention.
"It's strange," she murmured, half to herself, "how ill Jim Wayward has been looking recently.

I can't account for it." "I can, dear," said Virginia gently.
Constance turned in surprise.
"How ?" "Mr.Malcourt says that he is practising self-denial.

It hurts, you know." "What!" exclaimed Constance, flushing up.
"I said that it hurts." "Such a slur as that harms Louis Malcourt--not Mr.Wayward!" returned Constance hotly.
Virginia repeated: "It hurts--to kill desire.