“You see,” I said, “it is of no use to try to avoid me.  This is the third time we have met.  Will you receive me as a visitor, under these extraordinary circumstances?  Will you give me a little happiness to compensate for what I have suffered since you left me?”

She smiled and blushed.

“I am so surprised,” she answered, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Disagreeably surprised?” I asked.

She first went on with her work, and then replied (a little sadly, as I thought): 

“No!”

I was ready enough to take advantage of my opportunities this time; but she contrived with perfect politeness to stop me.  She seemed to remember with shame, poor soul, the circumstances under which I had last seen her.

“How do you come to be at Duskydale?” she inquired, abruptly changing the subject.  “And how did you find us out here?”

While I was giving her the necessary explanations her father came in.  I looked at him with considerable curiosity.

A tall stout gentleman with impressive respectability oozing out of him at every pore—­with a swelling outline of black-waistcoated stomach, with a lofty forehead, with a smooth double chin resting pulpily on a white cravat.  Everything in harmony about him except his eyes, and these were so sharp, bright and resolute that they seemed to contradict the bland conventionality which overspread all the rest of the man.  Eyes with wonderful intelligence and self-dependence in them; perhaps, also, with something a little false in them, which I might have discovered immediately under ordinary circumstances:  but I looked at the doctor through the medium of his daughter, and saw nothing of him at the first glance but his merits.

“We are both very much indebted to you, sir, for your politeness in calling,” he said, with excessive civility of manner.  “But our stay at this place has drawn to an end.  I only came here for the re-establishment of my daughter’s health.  She has benefited greatly by the change of air, and we have arranged to return home to-morrow.  Otherwise, we should have gladly profited by your kind offer of tickets for the ball.”

Of course I had one eye on the young lady while he was speaking.  She was looking at her father, and a sudden sadness was stealing over her face.  What did it mean?  Disappointment at missing the ball?  No, it was a much deeper feeling than that.  My interest was excited.  I addressed a complimentary entreaty to the doctor not to take his daughter away from us.  I asked him to reflect on the irreparable eclipse that he would be casting over the Duskydale ballroom.  To my amazement, she only looked down gloomily on her work while I spoke; her father laughed contemptuously.

“We are too completely strangers here,” he said, “for our loss to be felt by any one.  From all that I can gather, society in Duskydale will be glad to hear of our departure.  I beg your pardon, Alicia—­I ought to have said my departure.”