He had explained to her the principles of ventilation and why he disliked close waiting-rooms.  Zilda could not make her father learn the lesson, but it bore fruit afterwards when she came into power.  Gilby had explained other things to her, small practical things, such as some points in English grammar, some principles of taste in woman’s dress, how to choose the wools for her knitting, how to make muffins for his tea.  It was his kindly, conceited, didactic nature that made him instruct whenever he talked to her.  Zilda learned it all, and learned also to admire and love the author of such wisdom.

It was not his fault; it was not hers.  It was the result of his gorgeous watch-chain and his fine clothes and his worldly knowledge, and also of the fact that because of his strict notions and conceited pride it never occurred to him to be gallant or to make love to her.  Zilda, the hotel-keeper’s daughter, was accustomed to men who offered her light gallantry.  It was because she did not like such men that she learned to love—­rather the better word might be, to adore—­little John Gilby.  From higher levels of taste he would have been seen to be, in external notions, a common little man, but from Zilda’s standpoint, even in matters of outward taste he was an ideal; and Zilda, placed as she was, quickly perceived, what those who looked down upon him might not have discovered, that the heart of him was very good.  ’Mon Dieu, but he is good!’ she would say to herself, which was simply the fact.

All winter long Gilby came regularly.  Zilda was happy in thinking of him when he was gone, happy in expecting him when he was coming, happy in making fun of him so that no one ever suspected her affection.  All that long winter, when the snow was deep in the fields, and the engines carried snow-ploughs, and the loungers about the station wore buffalo coats, Zilda was very happy.  Gilby wore a dogskin cap and collar and cuffs; Zilda thought them very becoming.  Then spring came, and Gilby wore an Inverness cape, which was the fashion in those days.  Zilda thought that little Gilby looked very fascinating therein, although she remarked to her father that one could only know he was there because the cape strutted.  Then summer came and Gilby wore light tweed clothes.  The Frenchmen always wore their best black suits when they travelled.  Zilda liked the light clothes best.

Then there came a time when Gilby did not come.  No one noticed his absence at first but Zilda.  Two weeks passed and then they all spoke of it.  Then some one in St. Armand ascertained that Gilby had had a rise in the firm in which he was employed, that he sat in an office all day and did not travel any more.  Zilda heard the story told, and commented upon, and again talked over, in the way in which such matters of interest are slowly digested by the country intellect.