Henry sat still.

He looked at her with pleased interest, but it did not occur to him to rise.

Horace always rose when Sylvia entered a room, and Henry always rather resented it.
"Putting on society airs," he thought to himself, with a sneer.
However, he smiled involuntarily; the girl was so very pretty and so very unlike anything which he had ever seen.

"Dressed up as if she were going to a ball, in a dress made like a night-gown," he thought, but he smiled.

As for Horace, he felt dazzled.