She fairly glowed with it.

She was a rose indeed, full of sunlight and dew, and holding herself, over her golden heart of joy, with a divine grace and modesty.
Horace did not betray himself as much.

He had an expression of subdued triumph, but his face, less mobile than the girl's, was under better control.

He took his place at the table and unfolded his napkin.
"I am awfully sorry if we have kept you waiting, Mrs.Whitman," he said, lightly, as if it did not make the slightest difference if she had been kept waiting.
Sylvia had already served Rose with baked beans.

Now she spoke to Horace.