He put his strong brown hand on his brother's emaciated, once beautiful hand, now disfigured by coarse labour, and scarred and discoloured at the wrist.
"Get well, Michael," he said huskily.
Michael's hand trembled a little, seemed to shrink involuntarily.
Then a servant appeared suddenly, coming towards them across the grass, and Wentworth took back his hand instantly.
"The Duchess of Colle Alto and Miss Bellairs are in the library." "Are you quite sure that you _really_ wish to see them--that it will not tire you ?" said Wentworth.
"Quite sure." "I will bring them out." "No.

Send one at a time.

Fay first." Michael lay back and closed his eyes.
* * * * * On this May morning as Fay and Magdalen drove together to Barford, Magdalen looked at her sister's radiant face, not with astonishment, she had got over that, but with something more like fear.
The happiness of some natures terrifies those who love them by its appearance of brittleness.

To Magdalen Fay's present joy seemed like a bit of Venetian glass on the extreme edge of a cabinet at a child's elbow.
It is difficult for those who have imagination to understand the _insouciance_ which looks so like heartlessness of the unimaginative.
The inevitable meeting with Michael seemed to cast no shadow on Fay's spirits; Wentworth's ignorance of certain sinister facts did not seem to disturb her growing love for him.
Their way lay through a pine wood under the shoulder of the down.

The whortleberry with its tiny foliage made a miniature forest of pale golden green at the feet of the dark serried trunks of the pines.
Small yellow butterflies hovered amid the topmost branches of this underfoot forest.
Fay leaned out of the pony carriage and picked from the high bank a spray of whortleberry with a butterfly poised on it.
"I thought for one minute I might find a tiny, tiny butterfly nest with eggs in it," she said.