my eyes. I would no longer be a trouble to them; out of sheer gratitude I
would follow them with my gaze, not lose sight of them until they entered
some place safely and disappeared.

Outside No. 2, a large four-storeyed house, they turned again before going
in. I leant against a lamp-post near the fountain and listened for their
footsteps on the stairs. They died away on the second floor. I advanced
from the lamp-post and looked up at the house. Then something odd
happened. The curtains above were stirred, and a second after a window
opened, a head popped out, and two singular-looking eyes dwelt on me.
"Ylajali!" I muttered, half-aloud, and I felt I grew red.

Why does she not call for help, or push over one of these flower-pots and
strike me on the head, or send some one down to drive me away? We stand
and look into one another's eyes without moving; it lasts a minute.
Thoughts dart between the window and the street, and not a word is spoken.
She turns round, I feel a wrench in me, a delicate shock through my
senses; I see a shoulder that turns, a back that disappears across the
floor. That reluctant turning from the window, the accentuation in that
movement of the shoulders was like a nod to me. My blood was sensible of
all the delicate, dainty greeting, and I felt all at once rarely glad.
Then I wheeled round and went down the street.

I dared not look back, and knew not if she had returned to the window. The
more I considered this question the more nervous and restless I became.
Probably at this very moment she was standing watching closely all my
movements. It is by no means comfortable to know that you are being
watched from behind your back. I pulled myself together as well as I could
and proceeded on my way; my legs began to jerk under me, my gait became
unsteady just because I purposely tried to make it look well. In order to