" Therefore when,
three days after that great evening in the park, he caught her alone
in the drawing-room, her first impulse was to run away; then she
looked at him and found that her love for the world in general
embraced him too "if only he won't talk like a book," she thought to
herself.
He looked more wandering than ever with his high white collar, his
large spectacles, and his thin, dusty hair; the fire of some hidden,
vital spirit burnt beneath those glasses, and his face was so kindly
that she felt ashamed of herself for having avoided him so often.
"Both the aunts are at Miss Avies'." she said.
"Oh," he said, looking at her rather blankly.
"Perhaps I'll come another time," and he turned towards the door.
"No," she cried. "You won't--I haven't seen you for months."
"That's not my fault," he answered. "I thought we were to have been
friends, and you've run away every time you saw the corner of my
dusty coat poking round the door."
"Yes," she said, "I have--I've been frightened of every one lately."
"And you're not now?" he asked, looking at her with that sudden
bright sharpness that was so peculiarly his.
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