moreover, she was a sort of mysterious link between himself and the past,
which these things were vividly reviving in him.

The following week Christopher met her again. She had not much dignity,
he had not much reserve, and the sudden resolution to have a holiday
which sometimes impels a plump heart to rise up against a brain that
overweights it was not to be resisted. He just lifted his hat, and put
the only question he could think of as a beginning: 'Have I the pleasure
of addressing the author of a book of very melodious poems that was sent
me the other day?'

The girl's forefinger twirled rapidly the loop of braid that it had
previously been twirling slowly, and drawing in her breath, she said,
'No, sir.'

'The sender, then?'

'Yes.'

She somehow presented herself as so insignificant by the combined effect
of the manner and the words that Christopher lowered his method of
address to her level at once. 'Ah,' he said, 'such an atmosphere as the
writer of "Metres by E." seems to breathe would soon spoil cheeks that
are fresh and round as lady-apples--eh, little girl? But are you
disposed to tell me that writer's name?'

By applying a general idea to a particular case a person with the best of
intentions may find himself immediately landed in a quandary. In saying
to the country girl before him what would have suited the mass of country
lasses well enough, Christopher had offended her beyond the cure of