II
Nan stood still, with a finger to her lip, after he had gone, then she opened the door and ran quickly after him. He heard her steps, and her voice calling his name and, turning, he saw her, a bright flushed spot on each small cheek-bone, with strands of dark hair blowing across her face.
“Oh, Mr. Calthorpe, I haven’t offended you, have I?”
(“How tiny she is, and how concerned she looks!” he thought, and nearly laughed with tenderness.)
“Bless me, no, my dear!” he said, patting her arm as one might pat a child’s.
“I’m so glad; I was afraid ... you went away so suddenly.... You forgot the flowers; here, I’ve brought them.” She held them out, and continued to look anxiously up into his face. “Sure I didn’t say anything to offend you—sure?”
“Sure! you’re very sweet,” he said, taking the flowers.
“You’ve been so kind; I think you’re my best friend,” she said impulsively, and she put her hand on his cuff. “I must go back now—but you’re not cross, are you?”
“Not a bit; not in the very least.”
He walked away shaking his head rather ruefully.