Jules La Touche felt the impalpable change in her; and yet it would have puzzled him to define it.

His nature was gentle and tender, and he loved the pretty, fickle, rosy beauty with a depth and sincerity of which she was totally unworthy.
Upstairs, in her room, that night, Rose sat before the fire, toasting her feet and thinking.

Yes, thinking.

She was not guilty of it often; but to-night she was revolving the pros and cons of her own case.

If she refused to let Jules speak to her father, nothing would persuade him that her love had not died out.