One rainy afternoon in November, Brian was as usual making his way
down Gower Street, his umbrella held low to shelter him from the
driving rain which seemed to come in all directions. The milkman's
shrill voice was still far in the distance, the man of letters was
still at work upon knockers some way off, it was not yet time for
his little girl to make her appearance, and he was not even
thinking of her, when suddenly his umbrella was nearly knocked out
of his hand by coming violently into collision with another
umbrella. Brought thus to a sudden stand, he looked to see who it
was who had charged him with such violence, and found himself face
to face with his unknown friend. He had never been quite so close
to her before. Her quaint face had always fascinated him, but on
nearer view he thought it the loveliest face he had ever seen--it
took his heart by storm.

It was framed in soft, silky masses of dusky auburn hair which hung
over the broad, white forehead, but at the back was scarcely longer
than a boy's. The features, though not regular, were delicate and
piquant; the usual faint rose-flush on the cheeks deepened now to
carnation, perhaps because of the slight contretemps, perhaps
because of some deeper emotion--Brian fancied the latter, for the
clear, golden-brown eyes that were lifted to his seemed bright
either with indignation or with unshed tears. Today it was clear
that the mood was not a happy one.

"I am very sorry," she said, looking up at him, and speaking in a
low, musical voice, but with the unembarrassed frankness of a
child. "I really wasn't thinking or looking; it was very careless
of me."