unpardonable in your eyes," he said. "May I hope you will excuse me when
I have made you acquainted with my motive?"

He spoke with scrupulous politeness. His knowledge of Anne was of the
slightest possible kind. Like other men, he had felt the attraction of
her unaffected grace and gentleness on the few occasions when he had
been in her company--and that was all. If he had belonged to the present
generation he would, under the circumstances, have fallen into one of
the besetting sins of England in these days--the tendency (to borrow an
illustration from the stage) to "strike an attitude" in the presence
of a social emergency. A man of the present period, in Sir Patrick's
position, would have struck an attitude of (what is called) chivalrous
respect; and would have addressed Anne in a tone of ready-made sympathy,
which it was simply impossible for a stranger really to feel. Sir
Patrick affected nothing of the sort. One of the besetting sins of _his_
time was the habitual concealment of our better selves--upon the whole,
a far less dangerous national error than the habitual advertisement of
our better selves, which has become the practice, public and privately,
of society in this age. Sir Patrick assumed, if anything, less sympathy
on this occasion than he really felt. Courteous to all women, he was as
courteous as usual to Anne--and no more.

"I am quite at a loss, Sir, to know what brings you to this place. The
servant here informs me that you are one of a party of gentlemen who
have just passed by the inn, and who have all gone on except yourself."
In those guarded terms Anne opened the interview with the unwelcome
visitor, on her side.

Sir Patrick admitted the fact, without betraying the slightest
embarrassment.