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.
“She won’t come for an ordinary stroll with me of an evening, yet she
tears after me without a hat or a coat, all upset, for anybody to see!
She’s got a good heart.... She’s never herself when those Denes are
about. But when she’s herself she’s just as sweet as she can be. Poor
little thing! Am I a fool to go there?” and thinking these thoughts he
hurried on, carrying the flowers she had given him.