rustle made by the pages of a book, turned deliberately and smoothed afterwards. She was calmly reading, indifferent to his coming or staying away—reading while the tea was drawing. How stolid she was, he thought. She was certainly not-conscious of the action of her heart as she sat there. For a few moments longer he did not move. Then he felt he wished to see her, to see how she was sitting, and how really indifferent she was. But if he made a sound, she would look up and lay down her book even before he entered the room. The verandah had a floor of painted boards,—which are more noisy than unpainted ones, for some occult reason,—and he could not stir a step without being heard. Besides, his straw easy-chair would creak when he rose.
All at once he felt how very foolish he was, and he got up noisily, an angry blush on his young face. He reached the entrance in two strides and stood in the open doorway, with his back to the light. As he had guessed, Fanny was reading.
"Oh!" he ejaculated with affected surprise, as he looked at her.
