He was overcome with wondering admiration of her courage, and of self-reproach at his own short-sightedness. This was the girl he had looked upon as a spoiled village beauty, satisfied with her small triumphs and provincial elevation, and vacant of all other purpose. Here was she—the all-unconscious heroine—and he her critic helpless at her feet! It was not a cheerful reflection, and yet he took a certain delight in his expiation. Perhaps he had half believed in her without knowing it. What could he do or say? I regret to say he dodged the question meanly.
“And you think your disguise escaped detection?” he said, looking markedly at her escaped braid of hair.
She followed his eyes rather than his words, half pettishly caught up the loosened braid, swiftly coiled it around the top of her head, and, clapping the weather-beaten and battered conical hat back again upon it, defiantly said: “Yes! Everybody isn't as critical as you are, and even you wouldn't be—of a Chinaman!”
He had never seen her except when she was arrayed with the full intention to affect the beholders and perfectly conscious of her attractions; he was utterly unprepared for this complete ignoring of adornment now, albeit he was for the first time aware how her real prettiness made it unnecessary. She looked fully as charming in this grotesque head-covering as she had in that paragon of fashion, the new hat, which had excited his tolerant amusement.
“I'm afraid I'm a very poor critic,” he said bluntly. “I never conceived that this sort of thing was at all to your taste.”
“I came to see my father because I wanted to,” she said, with equal bluntness.
“And I came to see him though I DIDN'T want to,” he said, with a cynical laugh.
She turned, and fixed her brown eyes inquiringly upon him.
“Why did you come, then?”
“I was ordered by my directors.”