ow stood a tall man, young, though probably five or
six years older than I--in other respects of an appearance the opposite
to common place; though just now, as I am not disposed to paint his
portrait in detail, the reader must be content with the silhouette I
have just thrown off; it was all I myself saw of him for the moment: I
did not investigate the colour of his eyebrows, nor of his eyes either;
I saw his stature, and the outline of his shape; I saw, too, his
fastidious-looking RETROUSSE nose; these observations, few in number,
and general in character (the last excepted), sufficed, for they enabled
me to recognize him.

"Good evening, Mr. Hunsden," muttered I with a bow, and then, like a
shy noodle as I was, I began moving away--and why? Simply because Mr.
Hunsden was a manufacturer and a millowner, and I was only a clerk, and
my instinct propelled me from my superior. I had frequently seen Hunsden
in Bigben Close, where he came almost weekly to transact business with
Mr. Crimsworth, but I had never spoken to him, nor he to me, and I owed
him a sort of involuntary grudge, because he had more than once been the
tacit witness of insults offered by Edward to me. I had the conviction
that he could only regard me as a poor-spirited slave, wherefore I now
went about to shun his presence and eschew his conversation.

"Where are you going?" asked he, as I edged off sideways. I had already
noticed that Mr. Hunsden indulged in abrupt forms of speech, and I
perversely said to myself--

"He thinks he may speak as he likes to a poor clerk; but my mood is not,
perhaps, so supple as he deems it, and his rough freedom pleases me not
at all."

I made some slight reply, rather indifferent than courteous, and
continued to move away. He coolly planted himself in my path.

"Stay here awhile," said he: "it is so hot in the dancing-room; besides,
you don't dance; you have not had a partner to-night."

He was right, and as he spoke neither his look, tone, nor manner
displeased me; my AMOUR-PROPRE was propitiated; he had not addressed
me out of condescension, but because, having repaired to the cool
dining-room for refreshment, he now wanted some one to talk to, by way
of temporary amusement. I hate to be condescended to, but I like well
enough to oblige; I stayed.

"That is a good picture," he continued, recurring to the portrait.

"Do you consider the face pretty?" I asked.

"Pretty! no--how can it be pretty, with sunk eyes an