'The last bit was like a fairytale. Uncle, how awfully this place must love you!'
She did not say, 'How you must love the place!' And—she loathed the 'dirty' country all about.
Then, the first rush of excitement over, a sort of shyness, curiously becoming, had settled down all over her like a cloud. It settled down upon himself as well. But—she had said the perfect thing. And his doubts all vanished. It was—yes, surely—the Place she loved.
And yet, when all was over, there passed through him an unpleasant afterthought—as though Mánya had applied a test by which already something in himself was found gravely wanting.
