“I wanted to tell you,” I said, “that I didn’t mean quite . . . the
things I put in my letter.”
§ 4
When I and Nettie had been sixteen we had been just of an age and
contemporaries altogether. Now we were a year and three-quarters older,
and she—her metamorphosis was almost complete, and I was still only at
the beginning of a man’s long adolescence.
In an instant she grasped the situation. The hidden motives of her
quick ripened little mind flashed out their intuitive scheme of action.
She treated me with that neat perfection of understanding a young woman
has for a boy.
“But how did you come?” she asked.