critics, was walking smartly along the country lane that led to George Westcliff's little house.
"It's extraordinary how I dislike this man," she muttered. "I can't account for it." She re-arranged the bow beneath her chin and tried to see her face in a little stream that ran beside the road. "I wonder if I am much changed? I hope he won't think, to use a horridly feminine expression, that I have 'gone off' much."
When she reached the door she hesitated for a few moments, overcome with a sudden shyness she seldom experienced. "How will he meet me after all these years? What is the man like that I only knew as a lad?"
A slatternly servant opened the door at her knock, then shuffled off, down at the heel, to announce her. She heard the girl say, "A Miss Pilsoner to see you"; and, looking through the opened door, caught a sudden glimpse of George Westcliff. In the momentary glance she took in the whole untidy room and the desolate figure of the man. He was sitting staring through the dirty window at the grey sky beyond. The remains of his lunch were still upon the table.
