And hardly had she walked five minutes than she met Mr. Merrick, strolling in all his handsome dignity down the street.
There was no project in Angela; only the blind instinct to seize him, to use him; a weapon, perhaps an avenging weapon.
A fire was blazing in her, and by its glare through darkness she saw only fitfully her own desires. She held out her hand with a quick smile. “Dear Mr. Merrick, I had hoped to see you to-day. Will you walk back with me a little?”
She realized that Mr. Merrick’s slight knowledge of her could not be a very friendly one, but she guessed him to be susceptible to atonement.
Firmly and quickly she went on, “I have always wanted to talk to you and always missed the chance. We disagree, I think, about many things—and disagreement always attracts me. I long at once to get the larger sight, to test my truths by other’s truths. I so respect honesty, conviction, talent, even when used for purposes that oppose my own.”
Mr. Merrick, feeling a deep surprise and, perhaps, a touch of suspicion, bowed gravely and turned to walk beside her.
“I have so wanted to ask you about your life, about the steps of thought that have led you to your present position; for you must recognize that it is a position—and that to have achieved it implies responsibilities.”
Still with large gravity Mr. Merrick inclined his head, finding no ready words in answer to such comprehensive interest.
Angela was not wanting in humour, and a malicious thought of Maître Corbeau, sur un arbre perchê, flashed through her mind. He evidently accepted her implied homage as a making of amends fully due to his distinction.
“I have tried so often to really know you,” Angela said, smiling plaintively, though lightly; “especially since reading your essay on ‘Credulity’ last spring. But I can never find you.”