"I'm not as unhappy as I was," I faltered, without knowing what I said, and was rewarded to see her smile.
It was an innocent smile, without glee, a little sad in fact, but full of unutterable things like a very young child's. I had never seen such teeth, so white, so small, so regular.
"I'm glad of that," she said, simply. "I thought if some—some other woman was near you, you mightn't feel so—so much alone. That's why I watched round and followed you."
I could have fallen at her feet, but I restricted myself to saying:
"Thank you very much. It does make a difference." I got courage to add, however, with a smile of my own, "I see you know."
"Yes, I know. I've thought about you a good deal since that day about a fortnight ago—you remember?"
"Oh yes, I remember. I'm not likely to forget, am I? Only, you see, I had no idea—if I had, I mightn't have felt so—so awfully forlorn."
Her eyes rested upon me. I can only say of them that they were sweet and lovely, which is saying nothing at all. Sweet and lovely are the words that come to me when I think of her, and they are so lamentably overworked. She seemed to study me with a child-like unconsciousness.
"Yes," she said at last, "I suppose you do feel forlorn. I didn't think of that or—or I might have managed to come to you before."
"That you should have come now," I said, warmly, "is the kindest thing one human being ever did for another."