he had withdrawn himself when he first came in.  But now he wished himself among them sooner than set to talk to Nancy Pratt, when he had nothing to say.  And yet he might have had a companion less to his mind, for she was a decent young woman of a sober age, less inclined to giggle than many of the younger ones.  But all the time that he was making commonplace remarks to her he was wondering if he had offended Sylvia, and why she would not shake hands with him, and this pre-occupation of his thoughts did not make him an agreeable companion.  Nancy Pratt, who had been engaged for some years to a mate of a whaling-ship, perceived something of his state of mind, and took no offence at it; on the contrary, she tried to give him pleasure by admiring Sylvia.

‘I’ve often heerd tell on her,’ said she, ’but I niver thought she’s be so pretty, and so staid and quiet-like too.  T’ most part o’ girls as has looks like hers are always gape-gazing to catch other folks’s eyes, and see what is thought on ’em; but she looks just like a child, a bit flustered wi’ coming into company, and gettin’ into as dark a corner and bidin’ as still as she can.

Just then Sylvia lifted up her long, dark lashes, and catching the same glance which she had so often met before—­Charley Kinraid was standing talking to Brunton on the opposite side of the fire-place—­she started back into the shadow as if she had not expected it, and in so doing spilt her tea all over her gown.  She could almost have cried, she felt herself so awkward, and as if everything was going wrong with her; she thought that every one would think she had never been in company before, and did not know how to behave; and while she was thus fluttered and crimson, she saw through her tearful eyes Kinraid on his knees before her, wiping her gown with his silk pocket handkerchief, and heard him speaking through all the buzz of commiserating voices.

‘Your cupboard handle is so much i’ th’ way—­I hurt my elbow against it only this very afternoon.’

So perhaps it was no clumsiness of hers,—­as they would all know, now, since he had so skilfully laid the blame somewhere else; and after all it turned out that her accident had been the means of bringing him across to her side, which was much more pleasant than having him opposite, staring at her; for now he began to talk to her, and this was very pleasant, although she was rather embarrassed at their tete-a-tete at first.

‘I did not know you again when I first saw you,’ said he, in a tone which implied a good deal more than was uttered in words.

‘I knowed yo’ at once,’ she replied, softly, and then she blushed and played with her apron-string, and wondered if she ought to have confessed to the clearness of her recollection.

’You’re grown up into—­well, perhaps it’s not manners to say what you’re grown into—­anyhow, I shan’t forget yo’ again.’

More playing with her apron-string, and head hung still lower down, though the corners of her mouth would go up in a shy smile of pleasure.  Philip watched it all as greedily as if it gave him delight.