She did not answer; he knew she would not. He sat miserably at her
door for an hour, then wandered out into the woods, and stayed
there until dinner-time.

When he came in she was sitting by the lake, reading a French
novel. To him, who knew only his own language, there was something
peculiarly refined and elegant about her ability at French; he
thought, as did she, that she spoke French like a native, though,
in fact, her accent was almost British, and her understanding of
it was just about what can be expected in a person who has never
made a thorough study of any language. As he advanced toward her
she seemed unconscious of his presence. But she was seeing him
distinctly, and so ludicrous a figure of shy and sheepish
contrition was he making that she with difficulty restrained her
laughter. He glanced guiltily at the long, red scratch on the
pallid whiteness of her throat.

"I'm ashamed of myself," said he humbly. "I'm not fit to touch a
person like you. I--I--"

She was not so mean as she had thought she would be. "It was
nothing," said she pleasantly, if distantly. "Is dinner ready?"

Once more she had him where she wished--abject, apologetic,
conscious of the high honor of merely being permitted to associate
with her. She could relax and unbend again; she was safe from his
cyclones.