I wonder now that the words could satisfy me: yet they did.
"How ever did you come here?" I asked him.
"How? Why, by train part of the way, and the rest I walked," said he. "No, I didn't come to Claxton Station. I wanted a word with you, and nobody else. I should have been too well known at Claxton Station." Then he stood and looked at me. "Kitty, you are prettier than ever," says he. "You dear little thing! I've never seen a lovelier girl. No, never. When I saw you just now, with your back against the tree in the sunshine, you looked just like a little angel," says he.
I suppose it was natural I should be pleased with this rubbish, being, as I was, only a silly girl, and nothing at all of the angel in me. I might have told him it wasn't, to my knowledge, the way of angels to stand leaning against tree-trunks, doing nothing. But I only dropped my eyes, and felt happy.
"Just like a little angel," says he again.
"I like you to think me pretty," I said, in a whisper. And then, with a start, I went on: "But you are too late. Mary is gone."
"Yes, I know," said he. "If I'd come to see Mary, I should have come to Claxton Station, and not have walked six miles for nothing."
I'd forgotten that for the moment.
"Kitty, I mustn't stay long," said he. "I've something very particular to say, and I've got to make haste and be off."
Such an unhappy look came over his face as he spoke. I was facing the sun, and he had his back to it; but even so I couldn't help seeing his look nor how pulled and haggard he was. It flashed on me that something had happened, and I was frightened, thinking at once of Mary.