She meant it kindly, but unfortunately she was utterly unable to speak in a natural way to a stranger. In reality she was a poor, homesick, affectionate, kind-hearted young girl of twenty, who, not fifteen min[Pg 371]utes before, had been weeping from sheer loneliness.
But she spoke in what seemed to him an obnoxiously condescending and superior tone. He was a young man of many excellent qualities, but meekness was not one of them, and he resented this tone.
So he spoke with an air of amused indulgence, as if he thought her such a funny little thing:
“I don’t want to drive you away, you know.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Why, of course not!” she said, just as much amused as he was, and sat down in one of the chairs against the wall.
She sat there, and he stood opposite her, leaning against the railing, both of them silently not liking each other. Presently the silence became unbearable.
“The spring has come early this year,” observed Miss Selby.
Mr. Anderson, the city dweller, knew precious little about what was expected of spring, but he was determined to say something, anything.
“Yes,” he agreed. “They were selling violets in the streets yesterday.”