One day he mentioned the matter. He was walking home from church with her. Mr. Ainslee had invited him up for Sunday dinner and the party of them were chatting pleasantly as they walked along together.
In asking him a question Nan addressed him as Mr. Knight. Then it was that he stopped and made his startling request. He addressed them all but he meant only Nan.
"I wish," he said suddenly, "you would not call me Mr. Knight."
Mr. Ainslee and Billy hid a smile, said nothing and walked on. But Nan stopped in amazement.
"Why not?" she asked a little breathlessly.
"Nobody else does. I was never called that in India. It makes me feel lonely, and a stranger here."
"But," Nanny's voice was colorless and almost dreary, even though a wicked little gleam shot into her eyes, "what in the world shall I call you? I can't call you—John. And 'parson' always did seem to me rather coarse and disrespectful."
He had stopped when she did and now was looking straight down into her eyes. Before the hurt and surprise and bewilderment in his face the wicked little gleam retreated and a deep pink began to flush Nanny's cheeks. The suspicion crossed her mind that this tall young man from India with the unconquered eyes and the directness of a child might be a rather difficult person to deal with.
He just stood there and looked at her and said never a word. Then he quietly turned and walked on up the road with her.
For the first time in her life Nanny felt queer in the company of a man, queer and puzzled and almost uncomfortable. She was not a flirt and her remark was commonplace and trivial. Yet this new chap was taking it seriously and making her feel insincere and trifling. She told herself that she was not going to like him and kept her eyes studiously on the road and wayside flowers.