"I?"
"Yes." Bunning looked at the floor and began to speak very fast. "You've always seemed to me wonderful—so different from every one else. You always looked—so wonderful. I've always been like that, wanted my hero, and I haven't generally been able to speak to them—my heroes I mean. I never thought, of course, that I should speak to you. And then they sent me that day to you, and you came with me—it was so wonderful—I've thought of nothing else since. I don't think God would matter if you'd only let me come to see you sometimes and talk to you—like this."
"Don't talk that sort of rot. Always glad to see you. Of course you may come in and talk if you wish."
"Oh! you're so different—from what I thought. You always looked as though you despised everybody—and now you look—Oh! I don't know—but I'm afraid of you—-"
The wretched Bunning was swiftly regaining confidence. He was now, of course, about to plunge a great deal farther than was necessary and to burden Olva with sell-revelations and the rest.
Olva hurriedly broke in—
"Well, come and see me when you want to. I've got a lot of work to do before Hall. But we'll go for a walk one day. . . ."
Bunning was at once flung back on to his timid self. He pushed his spectacles back, blushed, nearly tumbled over his chair as he got up, and backed confusedly out of the room.
He tried to say something at the door—"I can't thank you enough. . ." he stuttered and was gone.
As the door closed behind him, swiftly Olva was conscious again of the Pursuit. . . .
He turned to the empty room—"Leave me alone," he whispered. "For pity's sake leave me alone."
The silence that followed was filled with insistent, mysterious urgency.