Pauline promised that of course she would like him, but in her heart she assured herself she never would. It was cerulean Winter weather when the friend arrived, and Pauline, who had latterly taken up the habit of often coming into the churchyard to talk for a while with Guy across the severing stream, abandoned the churchyard throughout that week-end. Guy was vexed by her withdrawal and vowed that in consequence all the pleasure of the visit had been spoiled.
"For I've been rushing in and out all the time to see if you were not in sight, and I'm often absolutely boorish to Fane, who, by the way, loves your Rectory bedroom so much."
"Has he condescended to let your book appear?" asked Pauline.
"Oh, rather; he says that everything I've included is quite all right. In fact, he's a much less severe critic than I am myself."
Pauline had made up her mind, if possible, to avoid a meeting with Michael, but on Monday she relented, and they were introduced to each other. The colloquy on that turquoise morning, when the earth smelled fresh and the grass in the orchard was so vernally green, did not help Pauline to know much about Michael Fane, save that he was not so tall as Guy, and that somehow he gave the impression of regarding life more like a portrait by Vandyck than a human being. He was cold, she settled, and she, as usual shy and blushful, could only have seemed stupid to him.
That afternoon, when the disturbing friend had gone, Pauline and Guy went for a walk.
"He admired you tremendously."
"Did he?" she made listless answer.
"He said you were a fairy's child, and he also said you really were a wild rose."
"What an exaggerated way of talking about somebody whom he has seen for only a moment."