He watched her, savoring her curious attention. He was in trouble and she could not help him; that was the ache in her heart. "O God!" he exclaimed, "I am severely punished. I always say that it’s poverty before everything that makes a girl skip the line. The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. She silently willed him to stop his pacing, to calm down. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. ’ A peal of delighted laughter greeted this threat. Between his lectures—and primarily he was an itinerant lecturer—he manoeuvred in vain to acquire some facts regarding the girl, who she was, whence she had come; but always she countered with: "What is that?" Guileless she might be; simple, never. .
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