"I was so looking forward to your seeing me," she said tearfully. And then, with sudden petulance, she stamped her small foot. "It is horrid of you—perfectly horrid—and I never want to speak to you again." The last word ended in a sob. She rushed to the door, pushed me aside, as I endeavoured to stop her, and fled in a passion of tears. Spretæ injuria formæ! Women have remained much the same since the days of Juno.
A miserable, remorseful being, I wandered through the Grandchester streets, to keep my appointment with Mr. Henry Deane. After a short interview he dismissed me with a good report of my eyes. Miss Deane, dressed for walking, met me in the hall as the servant was showing me out, and we went together into the street.
"Well," she said with a touch of irony, "have you seen my cousin?"
"Yes," said I.
"Do you think her like me?"
"I wish to Heaven she were!" I exclaimed fervently. "I shouldn't be swirling round in a sort of maelstrom."
She looked steadily at me—I like her downrightness.
"Do you mind telling me what you mean?"
"I am in love with the personality of one woman and the face of another. And I never shall fall out of love with the face."
"And the personality?"