But she determined to endure it; and Richard Yaverland, who afar off had
formed the intention of stopping and speaking to the girl with the
poster because she had such hair, was suddenly reminded by the comic and
romantic quality of her attitude that this was the typist he had met on
the previous evening, whose manifest discontent and ambition had come
into his mind more than once during his sleepless night and had
distressed him until some recollected gesture or accent made him laugh.
He slightly resented this recognition and the change it worked on his
emotional tone. For he was compelled to think of her as a human being
and be sorry because she was plainly cold and miserable; and it was his
desire to look on women with a magpie thievish eye and no concern for
their souls. Considering the part that most of them played in life it
was unwarrantable of them to have souls. The dinner that one eats does
not presume to have a soul. But the happy freedom of the voluptuary was
not for him; against his will there lived in him something sombre and
kind that was sensitive to spiritual things and despondent but
powerfully vigilant about the happiness of other people. He said to
himself, "That little girl is pretty well done up. She's nearly crying.
Someone must have been rude to her." (He did not know his Ellen yet.) "I
must give her a moment to get her poor little face straight." So until
he drew level with her his dark eyes were fixed on the Castle Rock.

And Ellen thought, "Why, here is the big man who has been in Spain and
South America and has the queer stains on his hands! How big he is, and
dark! He looks like a king among these other people. And how wonderful
his eyes are! He is miles away from here, seeing some distant beautiful
thing. Perhaps that mountainside he told us about where the reflection
of the sky is like a purple shadow on the snow. A poet must look like
that when he is thinking of a poem. But--but--if he keeps on staring up