She was not angry.

Her attitude seemed to be, in a sense, passive.

Yet what did passivity mean?
Was it resignation, consent, or was it simply the armour of normal resistance in which she had clothed herself?
Was he wise, after all, to risk everything?
Then, as he looked at her, as he realised her close and wonderful presence, he suddenly told himself that it was worth while risking even Heaven in the future for the joy of holding her for once in his arms.

She had never seemed to him so maddeningly beautiful as at that moment.

It was one of the hottest days of the season and she was wearing a gown of white muslin, curiously simple, enhancing, somehow or other, her fascinating slimness, a slimness which had nothing to do with angularity but possessed its own soft and graceful curves.