England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Genealogy -- Fiction
'I beg your pardon for not having come sooner,' the tall young man began
in a very cultivated tone, which took Mary aback even more than did his
singular and noteworthy appearance; 'but the fact is, you opened the
door so very softly the bell didn't ring; and I didn't notice there was
anybody in the shop, as I was busy cutting, till I happened to look up
accidentally from my ream, and then I saw you. I hope I haven't kept you
unnecessarily waiting?'
He spoke like a gentleman; and Mary observed, almost without remarking
it, that he didn't call her 'miss,' though she was hardly even aware of
the unusual omission, his manner and address were so perfectly those of
a courteous and wellbred equal. If she had fancied the customary title
was left out on purpose, as a special tribute of disrespect to her
position as governess, her sensitive little soul would have been
deeply hurt by the slight, even from an utter stranger; but she felt
instinctively the handsome young mail had no such intention. He didn't
mean to be anything but perfectly polite, so she hardly even noticed the
curious omission.
'Oh dear no,' she answered, in her timid little voice, unfolding her
parcel as she spoke with a kind of shrinking fear that she must be
hurting his feelings by treating him as a tradesman. 'I've only just
come in; and I--well, I wanted to know whether you could bind this again
for me? Or is it quite too old to be worth the trouble of binding?'
The young man took it from her hands, and looked at her as he took it.
The book was a 'British Flora,' in two stout octavo volumes, and it had
evidently seen wear and tear, for it was tattered and dog-eared. But he
received it mechanically, without glancing at it for a moment. His eyes,
in fact, were fixed hard on Mary's. A woman knows at once what a man is
thinking--especially, of course, when it's herself he's thinking about;
and Mary knew that minute the young man with the fine brow and the loose
yellow hair was thinking in his own head how exceedingly pretty she was.
That makes a girl blush under any circumstances, and all the more so
when the man who thinks it is her social inferior. Now, when Mary
blushed, she coloured up to her delicate shell-like ears, which made her
look prettier and daintier and more charming than ever; and the young
man, withdrawing his eyes guiltily and suddenly--for he, too, knew what
that blush must mean--was still further confirmed in his first opinion
that she was very pretty.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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