Her answers to all that I urged were confused, commonplace, and chilling enough.  I had surprised her—­frightened her—­it was impossible she could listen to such addresses from a total stranger—­it was very wrong of me to speak, and of her to stop and hear me—­I should remember what became me as a gentleman, and should not make such advances to her again—­I knew nothing of her—­it was impossible I could really care about her in so short a time—­she must beg that I would allow her to proceed unhindered.

Thus she spoke; sometimes standing still, sometimes moving hurriedly a few steps forward.  She might have expressed herself severely, even angrily; but nothing she could have said would have counteracted the fascination that her presence exercised over me.  I saw her face, lovelier than ever in its confusion, in its rapid changes of expression; I saw her eloquent eyes once or twice raised to mine, then instantly withdrawn again—­and so long as I could look at her, I cared not what I listened to.  She was only speaking what she had been educated to speak; it was not in her words that I sought the clue to her thoughts and sensations; but in the tone of her voice, in the language of her eyes, in the whole expression of her face.  All these contained indications which reassured me.  I tried everything that respect, that the persuasion of love could urge, to win her consent to our meeting again; but she only answered with repetitions of what she had said before, walking onward rapidly while she spoke.  The servant, who had hitherto lingered a few paces behind, now advanced to her young mistress’s side, with a significant look, as if to remind me of my promise.  Saying a few parting words, I let them proceed:  at this first interview, to have delayed them longer would have been risking too much.

As they walked away, the servant turned round, nodding her head and smiling, as if to assure me that I had lost nothing by the forbearance which I had exercised.  Margaret neither lingered nor looked back.  This last proof of modesty and reserve, so far from discouraging, attracted me to her more powerfully than ever.  After a first interview, it was the most becoming virtue she could have shown.  All my love for her before, seemed as nothing compared with my love for her now that she had left me, and left me without a parting look.

What course should I next pursue?  Could I expect that Margaret, after what she had said, would go out again at the same hour on the morrow?  No:  she would not so soon abandon the modesty and restraint that she had shown at our first interview.  How communicate with her? how manage most skilfully to make good the first favourable impression which vanity whispered I had already produced?  I determined to write to her.