"Davy, she afterwards informed me, soon got on her nerves. Always when she went out she caught him covertly peeping at her from behind the window curtain of the little front parlour; and if ever she stood for a moment to chat with his mother, she could see him slyly watching her through a chink in the doorway. She had seldom, so far, met him out of doors; but as she was returning from a walk one afternoon, she came across a group of village children shouting at and jostling someone very roughly in their midst, and approaching nearer saw that the object of their abuse was Davy, and that, in addition to pushing and pummelling him, they were tormenting him with stinging nettles--a very favourite device of the children in this district. Filled with disgust, rather than pity (Beryl, like most modern girls, is wanting in real sentiment, and in this instance simply hated to think that anyone could derive amusement from so ungainly a creature), she interfered. "'You abominable little wretches!' she cried. 'Leave him alone at once. Do you hear?' "Had a bomb fallen, the children could not have been more surprised. One or two of the boys were inclined to be rude, but on the rest the effect of Beryl's looks and clothes (the latter in particular) was magical. Gazing at her open-mouthed, they drew back and allowed Davy to continue his way. "After this, Davy peeped more than ever, and Beryl, losing patience, determined to put a stop to it. Catching him in the act of following her through the fields one morning, she turned on him in a fury. "'How dare you?' she demanded. 'How dare you annoy me like this? Go home at once.' "'This is my home, lady,' Davy replied, his eyes on the ground and his cheeks crimson. "'Then you must choose some other route,' Beryl retorted; 'and for goodness' sake don't be everlastingly looking at me. I can't stand it. No wonder those children rounded on you, you----' She was going to call him some very strong name--for Beryl when roused didn't stick at trifles--but suddenly checked herself. She began to realise that this queer, distorted little object was in love with her. Now no girl in London, probably, had more admirers than Beryl. Peers, politicians, authors, men of all vocations and classes had succumbed to her beauty, and she had deemed herself pretty well blasé. But here was a novelty. A poor, ostracised rustic hunchback--the incarnation of ugliness and simplicity. 'You know how the horrible often fascinates one,' she said to me later, 'for instance, a nasty tooth, or some other equally horrible defect in a person's face, which one keeps on looking at however much one tries not to--well, it was a fascination of this kind that possessed me now. I felt I must see more of the hunchback and egg him on to the utmost.'