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 wouldn't be. . . that you. . . I didn't know how soon I could come again.

Apparently she was not listening. You don't know what you've done for me, she went on, waving Gareth to a seat. I was quite desperate until I met you. It doesn't seem as if I had talked of anything but the water-works and the new depot since I came to Maple Valley.

Gareth grinned. I know, he assented. It's awful, especially for strangers. It's bad enough when you live here.

When you approached me the other evening and began to ask me about myself, I nearly fainted, the Countess continued. It was a shock. Not that I want to talk about myself to you. I don't, at all. I want to know all about you, but the excuse, the reason, for my interest in you is that you pretended to be interested in me.

I wasn't pretending, Gareth replied, very quietly. I am interested in you, more interested than I have ever been in anybody before.

The heart of the Countess was thumping violently. Can I keep my hands away from him? she demanded of herself, and then replying to her unuttered question: But, old goose, it isn't your body that interests him, it's what you stand for, your education, your past, your experience, your mind, your background. . . and she silently adjured herself to have patience.

You know, Gareth continued, what it is like here.