‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. And now— I suppose I should be considered too old. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own.
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