Белые люди

           IlookedupanddownandsawnoneIcouldbelievebelongedtohim.Therewerehandsomefacesandindividualones,butatfirstIsawnoHectorMacNairn.Then,onbendingforwardalittletoglancebehindanepergne,Ifoundafacewhichitsurprisedandpleasedmetosee.Itwasthefaceofthetravelerwhohadhelpedthewomaninmourningoutoftherailwaycarriage,baringhisheadbeforehergrief.Icouldnothelpturningandspeakingtomystatelyelderlypartner.

           “Doyouknowwhothatis—themanattheothersideofthetable?”Iasked.

           OldLordArmourlookedacrossandansweredwithanamiablesmile.“Itistheauthortheworldistalkingofmostinthesedays,andthetalkingisnonewthing.It’sMr.HectorMacNairn.”

           NoonebutmyselfcouldtellhowgladIwas.Itseemedsorightthatheshouldbethemanwhohadunderstoodthedeepsofapoor,passingstrangerwoman’swoe.Ihadsolovedthatquietbaringofhishead!AllatonceIknewIshouldnotbeafraidofhim.HewouldunderstandthatIcouldnothelpbeingshy,thatitwasonlymynature,andthatifIsaidthingsawkwardlymymeaningswerebetterthanmywords.PerhapsIshouldbeabletotellhimsomethingofwhathisbookshadbeentome.Iglancedthroughtheflowersagain—andhewaslookingatme!Icouldscarcelybelieveitforasecond.Buthewas.Hiseyes—hiswonderfuleyes—metmine.Icouldnotexplainwhytheywerewonderful.Ithinkitwastheclearnessandunderstandinginthem,andasortofgreatinterestedness.Peoplesometimeslookatmefromcuriosity,buttheydonotlookbecausetheyarereallyinterested.