She had shown nothing to the young man but composed appreciation of his conduct.  She was, however, conscious that he would not have been so kind to any girl he happened to meet.  “He admires me,” thought Eliza to herself.  For all that, she was not satisfied with the encounter.  She felt that she had not played her part well; she had been too—­had been too—­she did not know what.  She thought if she had held her head higher and shown herself less thankful—­yes, there had been something amiss in her behaviour that ought to be corrected.  She could not define what she had done, or ought to have done.  How could she?  An encounter of this sort was as new to her as Mrs. Rexford’s sewing machine, which she had not yet been allowed to touch.  Yet had she been shut up alone with the machine, as she was now shut up to revise her own conduct within herself, she would, by sheer force of determined intelligence, have mastered its intricacy to a large degree without asking aid.  And so with this strong idea that she must learn how to act differently to this young man; dim, indeed, as was her idea of what was lacking, or what was to be gained, she strove with it in no fear of failure.

She raised her head as she walked, and recast the interview just past in another form more suited to her vague ideal, and again in another.  She had a sense of power within her, that sense which powerful natures have, without in the least knowing in what direction the power may go forth, or when they will be as powerless—­as Samson shaven.  She only felt the power and its accompanying impulses; she supposed that in all ways, at all times, it was hers to use.

In a day or two Cyril Harkness met Eliza in the street again, and took occasion to speak to her.  This time she was much less obliging in her manner.  She threw a trifle of indifference into her air, looking in front of her instead of at him, and made as if she wished to proceed.  Had this interview terminated as easily as the other, she would have been able to look back upon it with complete satisfaction, as having been carried on, on her part, according to her best knowledge of befitting dignity; but, unfortunately for her, the young American was of an outspoken disposition, and utterly untrammelled by those instincts of conventionality which Eliza had, not by training, but by inheritance from her law-abiding and custom-loving Scotch ancestry.

“Say,” said he, “are you mad at anything?”

He gained at least this much, that she instantly stared at him.

“If you aren’t angry with me, why should you act crusty?” he urged.  “You aren’t half as pleasant as t’other day.”

Eliza had not prepared herself for this free speaking, and her mind was one that moved slowly.

“I must take the children home,” she said.  “I’m not angry.  I wasn’t pleasant that I know of.”

“You ought to be pleasant, any way; for I’m your best friend.”

Eliza was not witty, and she really could not think of an answer to this astonishing assertion.  Again she looked at him in simple surprise.