She held out her right arm for him to look at; under her muslin blouse he saw its tense roundness, and its whiteness through the slit above her wrist.
His heart stirred in him. Phœbe's arms were beautiful, and they were strong to help.
"I wish," he said, "I could make it better for you."
"Oh, but you have made it better for us. You can't think what a difference you've made."
"Have I? Have I?"
"Yes. Effie said so only the other day. She wrote it to Mary. And Mary says it's a shame she can't be here. It is, you know. It makes us feel so mean having you all to ourselves like this."
He laughed. He laughed whenever he thought of it. There was nobody who could say things as Phœbe said them.
"I wish," said she, "you knew Mary. You'd like her so."
"I'm sure I should if she's at all like you."
(Her innocence sheltered him, made him bold.)