small wood-shed and two clucking hens. But I thought it very pretty, until I saw that its elegance was of the most frugal kind; after which, presently, I thought it prettier still, for I had never seen faded chintz and old mezzotint engravings, framed in varnished autumn leaves, disposed in so graceful a fashion. Miss Spencer sat down on a very small portion of the sofa, with her hands tightly clasped in her lap. She looked ten years older, and it would have sounded very perverse now to speak of her as pretty. But I thought her so; or at least I thought her touching. She was peculiarly agitated. I tried to appear not to notice it; but suddenly, in the most inconsequent fashion,—it was an irresistible memory of our little friendship at Havre,—I said to her, "I do incommode you. You are distressed."
She raised her two hands to her face, and for a moment kept it buried in them. Then, taking them away,—"It's because you remind me—" she said.
"I remind you, you mean, of that miserable day at Havre?"
She shook her head. "It was not miserable. It was delightful."
"I never was so shocked as when, on going back to your inn the next morning, I found you had set sail again."
She was silent a moment; and then she said, "Please let us not speak of that."
"Did you come straight back here?" I asked.
