that day when John first saw her; and now as he spoke with her, her mouth smiled, as he had been sure it would.  John felt a curious sense of pride in her, in finding that he had not been deceived, that this ideal of whom he had dreamed was really and truly very good to look at.  He knew little of the artist’s rules of beauty; he had often looked with wonder at the faces in the illustrations to Dr. Smith’s classical dictionary, and had tried to understand where the beauty of them lay, and at Cambridge he had seen and studied with interest many photographs and casts from the antiques.  But to his mind the antique would not bear comparison for a moment with Mrs. Goddard, who resembled no engraving nor photograph nor cast he had ever seen.

And she, too, looked at him, and said to herself that he did not look like what she had expected.  He looked like a lean, fresh young Englishman of moderate intelligence and in moderate circumstances.  And yet she knew that he was no ordinary young fellow, that he was wonderfully gifted, in fact, and likely to make a mark in the world.  She resolved to take a proper interest in him.

“Do you know,” she said, “I have heard so much about you, that I feel as though I had met you before, Mr. Short.”

“We really have met,” said John.  “Do you remember that hot day when you came to the vicarage and I waked up Muggins for you?”

“Yes—­was that you?  You have changed.  That is, I suppose I did not see you very well in the hurry.”

“I suppose I have changed in two years and a half.  I was only a boy then, you know.  But how have you heard so much about me?”

“Billingsfield,” said Mrs. Goddard with a faint smile, “is not a large place.  The Ambroses are very fond of you and always talk of what you are doing.”

“And so you really live here, Mrs. Goddard?  How long is it since you came?  Mr. Ambrose never told me—­”

“I have been here more than two years—­two years last October,” she answered quietly.

“The very year I left—­only a month after I was gone.  How strange!”

Mrs. Goddard looked up nervously.  She was frightened lest John should have made any deductions from the date of her arrival.  But John was thinking in a very different train of thought.

“Why is it strange?” she asked.

“Oh, I hardly know,” said John in considerable embarrassment.  “I was only thinking—­about you—­that is, about it all.”

The answer did not tend to quiet Mrs. Goddard’s apprehensions.

“About me?” she exclaimed.  “Why should you think about me?”

“It was very foolish, of course,” said John.  “Only, when I caught sight of you that day I was very much struck.  You know, I was only a boy, then.  I hoped you would come back—­but you did not.”  He blushed violently, and then glanced at his companion to see whether she had noticed it.

“No,” she said, “I did not come back for some time.”