It was difficult to meet her again, even though on this lump of rock the difficulty lay as a rule rather in avoidance than in meeting. But Avice had been transformed into a very different kind of young woman by the self-consciousness engendered of her impulsive greeting, and, notwithstanding their near neighbourhood, he could not encounter her, try as he would. No sooner did he appear an inch beyond his father’s door than she was to earth like a fox; she bolted upstairs to her room.
Anxious to soothe her after his unintentional slight he could not stand these evasions long. The manners of the isle were primitive and straightforward, even among the well-to-do, and noting her disappearance one day he followed her into the house and onward to the foot of the stairs.
‘Avice!’ he called.
‘Yes, Mr. Pierston.’
‘Why do you run upstairs like that?’
‘Oh—only because I wanted to come up for something.’
‘Well, if you’ve got it, can’t you come down again?’
‘No, I can’t very well.’
‘Come, DEAR Avice. That’s what you are, you know.’
There was no response.