house, and about half-past twelve that night he realised that he had done no work that day, and that those hours which had not been spent talking to Diana Redmayne, had been spent in thinking about her.
“It’s not because she’s pretty and clever,” he said; “and it’s not even because she’s a woman. It’s because she’s the only intelligent human being I’ve spoken to for nearly a year.”
So day after day he went on thinking about her.
It was three weeks later that the bell again creaked and jangled, and again through the spotted glass he saw a woman’s hat. To his infinite disgust and surprise, his heart began to beat violently.
“I grow nervous, living all alone,” he said. “Confound this door! how it does stick—I must have it planed.”
He got the door opened, and found himself face to face with—Camilla.
He stepped back, and bowed gravely.
She looked more beautiful than ever—and he looked at her, and wondered how he could ever have thought her even passably pretty.
“Won’t you ask me in?” she said timidly.
“No,” said he, “I am all alone.”
