With a shudder that was half a sob I turned away and walked down the
street and into the one which would lead to Scarborough Square. As I
walked my shoulders straightened. What was the matter with me? Was
I becoming that which I loathed--a suspicious, spying person? I was
insulting Selwyn. He knew I hated mystery, however, knew the right
of explanation was mine, knew that I expected of any man who was my
friend that his life should be as open as my life. If I had hurt
him, angered him by my question when I last saw him, he had hurt, had
angered me far more. For now I was angry. Did he imagine I was the
sort of woman who accepted reticence with resignation? I was not.

At the corner Mr. Fogg was standing in the door of his little shop,
holding a blue bottle up to the light and examining it with critical
care. He had on his usual clothes of many colors, shabby from much
wearing, but in his round, clean-shaven face, pink with health and
inward cheer, was smiling serenity, and in his eyes a twinkle that
yielded not to time or circumstance. His second-hand bookshelf, his
canary-birds and white rabbits, his fox-terriers and goldfish are
friends that never fail, and in them he has found content. His
eagerness to chat occasionally with some one who cares, as he cares,
for his beloved books, is not at times to be resisted, but I was in
no mood to talk to-day. I wondered if I could hurry by.

"Good morning!" The blue bottle, half filled with water, in which a
tiny bulb was floating, was waved toward me, and a shaggy white head
nodded at me. "It's a fine day, ain't it?--a fine day for snow.
Good and gray. I think we'll have some flakes before night. Kinder
feel like a boy again when it's snowing. I don't know yet which
season I like best. Every one has got its glory. What you been up
to to-day? Seeing some more things?"