Then he strolled across the road, and—for the first time became aware that the young girl from the station had been a spectator of the scene.
He pulled up short within a few paces of her, and the two stood and looked at each other. She had the dog in her arms, and on her face and in her eyes was an expression which baffles my powers of description. It was not fright nor disgust, nor admiration, nor scorn, but a little of each skillfully and most perplexedly mingled. Women hate fighting, when it is inconveniently near to them; on the other hand they love courage, because they have so little of it themselves, and they adore a man who will stand up in defense of one of themselves or a dumb animal.
The girl had longed to turn and fly at the first sight and sound of the awful blows, but she could not: a horrible fascination kept her chained to the spot, and even when the fray was over she still stood, trembling and palpitating, her color coming and going in turn, her arms quite squeezing the dog in her excitement and emotion.
The young man looked at her, took in the oval face, with its dark, eloquent eyes and sweet, tremulous lips, the tall, graceful figure, even the plain blue serge, which seemed so part and parcel of that figure; then his glance dropped awkwardly, and he said, shamefacedly:
"I beg your pardon; I didn't know you were looking on."
The girl drew a long breath.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she said, sternly, with a little catch in her voice.
He raised his eyes a moment—they were handsome, and, if the truth must be told, dare-devil eyes—then dropped them again.
"It—it is shameful," she went on, her lovely face growing carmine, her eyes flashing rebukingly, "for two men to fight like—like dogs; and one a gentleman!"