“You know,” he said. “I’ve often wanted to—to have a little talk with you. I—I often noticed you.”
“Did you?” said Miss Patterson, ready to laugh through her unshed tears, for he needn’t have troubled to tell her that.
“But you see,” he went on, “I didn’t know—I couldn’t tell whether you—”
She was very glad to hear that, because sometimes she had been afraid that he could tell, could read in her face what was in her heart.
“You know, you’re so different from any one else,” he said. “Every time I saw you, I—whenever I saw you, it seemed—that is, I thought you were so different from any one else.”
He stopped, aware that he was doing very badly, and filled with horror at his own idiotic words. She would think he was a fool.
Yet how could he possibly convey to this ethereal, fragile, and unworldly creature any idea of his own tempestuous love without alarming and offending her? He had no business to love her. It was a gross impertinence. She was an angel, and he was nothing but a clumsy—
The taxi turned a corner sharply, and he was flung sidewise, so that his shoulder brushed hers.
“I’m sorry!” he cried earnestly. “I couldn’t help it!”
“But you’re soaking wet!” said Miss Patterson.