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 '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.