have had nothing to complain of. But the mischief was that he couldn't.
The thing that perplexed and annoyed him,--and humiliated him too, in
some measure,--was a craving that had sprung up over-night, and was now
strong and constant, to get into personal touch with her, to make her
acquaintance, to talk with her; to find out a little what manner of soul
she had, to establish some sort of human relation with her. It wasn't
in the least as yet a sentimental craving; or, if it was, John at any
rate didn't know it. In its essence, perhaps, it was little more than
curiosity. But it was disturbing, upsetting, it destroyed the peace and
the harmonious leisure of his day. It perplexed him, it was outside his
habits, it was unreasonable. "Not unreasonable to think it might be fun
to talk to a pretty woman," he discriminated, "but unreasonable to yearn
to talk to her as if your life hung in the balance." And in some
measure, too, it humiliated him: it was a confession of weakness, of
insufficiency to himself, of dependence for his contentment upon
another. He tried to stifle it; he tried to fix his mind on subjects
that would lead far from it. Every subject, all subjects, subjects the
most discrepant, seemed to possess one common property, that of leading
straight back to it. Then he said, "Well, if you can't stifle it, yield
to it. Go down into the garden--hunt her up--boldly engage her in
conversation." Assurance was the note of the man; but when he pictured
himself in the act of "boldly engaging her in conversation," his
assurance oozed away, and he was conscious of a thrice-humiliating
shyness. Why? What _was_ there in the woman that should turn a brave man
shy?

However, the stars were working for him. That afternoon, coming home
from a stroll among the olives, he met her face to face at the gate of
the garden, whither she had arrived from the direction of the village.
Having made his bow, which she accepted with a smile, he could do no