ugh he were a stranger guilty of mere insolence.
'I don't wish to speak to you.'

With astonishment, Crewe found himself alone. But a rebuff such as this,
so irrational as he thought it, so entirely out of keeping with Miss.
Lord's behaviour, he could by no means accept. Nancy was walking towards
the railway-station; he followed. He watched her as she took a ticket,
then put himself in her way, with all the humility of countenance he
could command.

'I'm so sorry I offended you. It wasn't the right thing to do; I ought
to have waited till you were across. I'm a blundering sort of fellow in
those things. Do let me beg your pardon, and forgive me.'

She was calmer now, though still tremulous. But for the attack of
nervousness, she would have met Crewe with nothing worse than a slight
reserve, to mark a change in their relations. Very soon after her
father's death he had written a becoming letter, though it smacked of
commercial phraseology. To the hope expressed in it, that he might be
allowed to call upon her in a few weeks' time, Nancy made no reply. A
fortnight later he wrote again, this time reminding her, with modest
propriety, of what had occurred between them before she left town in
August. Nancy responded, and in grave, friendly language, begged him to
think of her no more; he must not base the slightest hope upon anything
she might have said. To her surprise, Crewe held his peace, and she saw
him now for the first time since their ascent of the Monument.

'I'm ashamed that I lost my temper, Mr. Crewe. I am in a hurry to get
home.'

In the booking-office at Ludgate Hill it is not easy to detain, by
chivalrous discourse, a lady bent on escaping; but Crewe attempted it.
He subdued his voice, spoke rapidly and with emotion, implored that he
might be heard for a moment. Would she not permit him to call upon her?
He had waited, respecting her seclusion. He asked for nothing whatever
but permission to call, as any acquaintance might.

'Have you heard I have opened an office in Farringdon Street? I should
so like to tell you all about it--what I'm doing--'

'No one calls to see me,' said Nancy, with firmness. 'I wish to live
quite alone. I'm very sorry to seem unfriendly.'

'Is it anything I've done?'

'No--nothing whatever. I assure you, nothing. Let us say good-bye; I
can't stop another moment.'

They shook hands and so parted.

'You're back early,' said Mary, when Nancy entered the drawing-room.

'Yes.