"Really!" she exclaimed, agreeably flattered, but scarcely surprised by this information. "I should consent quick enough! I can't bear to walk down the street!" He laughed condescendingly. "Well, I don't think your mother _would_ care to sell, if you ask me." He sat down. Hilda frowned, regretting her confession and resenting his laughter. "What will your charges be, please, Mr. Cannon?" she demanded abruptly, and yet girlishly timid. And at the same moment she drew forth her purse, which she had been holding ready in her hand. For a second he thought she was referring to the price of rent-collecting, but the appearance of the purse explained her meaning. "Oh! There's no charge!" he said, in a low voice, seizing a penholder. "But I must pay you something! I can't--" "No, you mustn't!" Their glances met in conflict across the table. She had known that he would say exactly that. And she had been determined to insist on paying a fee--utterly determined! But she could not, now, withstand the force of his will. Her glance failed her. She was disconcerted by the sudden demonstration of her inferiority. She was distressed. And then a feeling of faintness, and the gathering of a mist in the air, positively frightened her. The mist cleared. His glance seemed to say, with kindness: "You see how much stronger I am than you! But you can trust me!" The sense of adventure grew even more acute in her. She marvelled at what life was, and hid the purse like a shame. "It's very kind of you," she murmured. "Not a bit!" he said. "I've got a job through this. Don't forget that. We don't collect rents for nothing, you know--especially Calder Street sort of rents!" She picked up her basket and rose. He also rose. "So you've been looking at my Victor Hugo," he remarked, putting his right hand negligently into his pocket instead of holding it forth in adieu. IV So overset was she by the dramatic surprise of his challenging remark, and so enlightened by the sudden perception of it being perfectly characteristic of him, that her manner changed in an instant to a delicate, startled timidity. All the complex sensitiveness of her nature was expressed simultaneously in the changing tints of her face, the confusion of her eyes and her gestures, and the exquisite hesitations of her voice as she told him about the coincidence which had brought back to her in his office the poem of her schooldays. He came to the bookcase and, taking out the volume, handled it carelessly.