'They were of pale primrose. Touching, don't you think?'

He had seated himself crosswise on a camp-stool, and seemed to be
admiring the contour of his brown boots. Lionel's age was not more
than seven-and-twenty; he enjoyed sound health, and his face
signified contentment with the scheme of things as it concerned
himself; but a chronic languor possessed him. It might be sheer
laziness, possibly a result of that mental habit, discernible In his
look, whereby he had come to regard his own judgment as the
criterion of all matters in heaven and earth. Yet the conceit which
relaxed his muscles was in the main amiable; it never repelled as
does the conceit of a fop or a weakling or a vulgar person; he could
laugh heartily, even with his own affectations for a source of
amusement. Of personal vanity he had little, though women esteemed
him good-looking; his steady, indolent gaze made denial of such
preoccupation. Nor could he be regarded as emasculate; his movements
merely disguised the natural vigour of a manly frame, and his
conversational trifling hinted an intellectual reserve, a latent
power of mind, obvious enough in the lines of his countenance.

Nancy was excusable for supposing that he viewed her slightingly. He
spoke as one who did not expect to be quite understood by such a
hearer, addressing her, without the familiarity, much as he
addressed his young cousins. To her, his careful observance of
formalities seemed the reverse of flattering; she felt sure that
with young women in his own circle he would allow himself much more
freedom. Whether the disparagement applied to her intellect or to
her social status might be a question; Nancy could not decide which
of the two she would prefer. Today an especial uneasiness troubled
her from the first moment of his appearance; she felt a stronger