"Funny? No. Why?"

"Because you keep on looking at me."

"I didn't know I was looking at you."

"Well, you were. You're always doing it. And I can't think why."

"It isn't because I want to."

He held his book up so that it hid his face.

"Then don't do it," she said. "You needn't."

"I shan't," he snarled, savagely, behind his screen.

But he did it again and again, as if for the life of him he couldn't
help it. There was something about it mysterious and exciting. It made
Anne want to look at Eliot when he wasn't looking at her.

She liked his blunt, clever face, the half-ugly likeness of his father's
with its jutting eyebrows and jutting chin, its fine grave mouth and
greenish-brown eyes; mouth and eyes that had once been so kind and were
now so queer. Eliot's face made her keep on wondering what it was doing.
She _had_ to look at it.

One day, when she was looking, their eyes met. She had just time to see
that his mouth had softened as if he were pleased to find her looking at
him. And his eyes were different; not cross, but dark now and unhappy;
they made her feel as if she had hurt him.