o a fancy for himself. "Yes," he reflected, "that
must have been it."

In two days his pride in the affair had lost its first acuteness, though
it had continued to brighten every moment of his life, and though he had
not ceased to regret that he had no intimate friend to whom he could
recount it in solemn and delicious intimacy. Now, philosophically, he
stamped on his pride as on a fire. And he affected to be relieved at
the decision that the girl had been moved by naught but a sort of
fanaticism. But he was not relieved by the decision. The decision
itself was not genuine. He still clung to the notion that she had
followed him for himself. He preferred that she should have taken a
fancy to him, even though he discovered no charm in her, no beauty, no
solace, nothing but matter for repulsion. He wanted her to think of
him, in spite of his distaste for her; to think of him hopelessly. "You
are an ass!" murmured the impartial watcher in the conning tower. And
he was. But he did not care. It was agreeable thus to be an ass...
His pride flared up again, and instead of stamping he blew on it.

"By Jove!" he thought, eyeing her slyly, "I'll make you show your hand--
you see if I don't! You think you can play with me, but you can't!" He
was as violent against her as if she had done him an injury instead of
having squeezed his hand in the dark. Was it not injurious to have
snapped at him, when he refused her invitation to stand by her against
the wall in the porch, "You needn't be afraid"? Janet would never have
said such a thing. If only she resembled Janet! ...

During all this private soliloquising, Edwin's mien of mild nervousness
never hardened to betray his ferocity, and he said nothing that might
not have been said by an innocuous idiot.

The paper boy, arrayed richly, slipped apologetically into the shop. He
had certain packets to take out for delivery, and he was late. Edwin
nodded to him distantly. The conversation languished.

Then the head of Mr Orgreave appeared in the aperture. The architect
seemed amused. Edwin could not understand how he had ever stood in awe
of Mr Orgreave, who, with all his distinction and expensiveness, was
the most companionable person in the world.

"Oh! Father!" cried Janet. "What a deceitful thing you are! Do you
know, Mr Edwin, he pooh-poohed us coming down: he said he was far too
busy for such childish things as Centenaries! And look at him!"

Mr Orgreav