“I say!” he said, suddenly, to Frances, with a marked English accent, “Isn’t there something wrong about this thing? B ought to come next to A.”
She explained that the keyboard wasn’t arranged alphabetically. He asked why not, and she said she didn’t know.
“Some American idea, I suppose,” he observed, with displeasure, and turned away to resume his struggle.
He was not polite, he was certainly not clever, and, in spite of limpid and innocent grey eyes, not handsome; his nose was too large, his expression too contemptuous. Why then should Frances think him so terribly appealing and attractive? She felt an exaggerated good-will toward him, an ardent wish to help him, even to comfort him. There was no obvious reason for this painful compassion; he was well-dressed, showed not the least trace of poverty, quite the contrary. He looked healthy too, although very thin. And he had very much the air of being satisfied with himself. Ridiculous girl!
He had come to the end of a line and not understanding the bell’s signal, was trying to keep on writing. He saw that something was wrong, and he turned to Frances again. She had been watching him, and was ready to explain at once.
“I’ve never tried one of these infernal things before,” he remarked, quite unnecessarily.
“I’ve been at it for two months,” said Frances, with a sigh, “but I don’t seem to get on. Not like the others.”
He looked at her thoroughly for the first time.
“You’re not like the others,” he said, “that’s probably why.”
And added: