along the platform in imitation of Gilby, and smiled when their
imitation was good. When it was poor she cried, 'Non, ce n'est pas comme
ca,' and she came out from the doorway and showed them how to do it. Her
imitation was very good indeed, and excited much laughter. This showed
that Zilda had been waked into greater vivacity. Six months before she
could not have done so good a piece of acting.

Zilda's exhibition would go further than this. Excited by success, she
would climb the wood pile, large and heavy as she was, and, standing
upon its edge, would flap her arms and flutter back in a frightened
manner and brace herself to the leap, as Gilby had done. She was aided
in this representation by her familiarity with the habits of chickens
when they try to get down from a high roost. The resemblance struck her;
she would cry aloud to the men--

'Voici Monsieur Geelby, le poulet qui a peur de descendre!'

The fact that at the thought of mimicking Gilby Zilda was roused to an
unwarranted glow of excitement showed, had any one been wise enough to
see it, that she felt some inward cause of pleasurable excitement at the
mention of his name. A narrow nature cannot see absurdity in what it
loves, but Zilda's nature was not narrow. She had learnt to love little
Gilby in a fond, deep, silent way that was her fashion of loving.

He had explained to her the principles of ventilation and why he
disliked close waiting-rooms. Zilda could not make her father learn the
lesson, but it bore fruit afterwards when she came into power. Gilby had
explained other things to her, small practical things, such as some
points in English grammar, some principles of taste in woman's dress,
how to choose the wools for her knitting, how to make muffins for his
tea. It was his kindly, conceited, didactic nature that made him
instruct whenever he talked to her. Zilda learned it all, and learned
also to admire and love the author of such wisdom.

It was not his fault; it was not hers. It was the result of his gorgeous
watch-chain and his fine clothes and his worldly knowledge, and also of
the fact that because of his strict notions and conceited pride it never
occurred to him to be gallant or to make love to her. Zilda, the
hotel-keeper's daughter, was accustomed to men who offered her light
gallantry. It was because she did not like such men that she learned to
love--rather the better word might be, to adore--little John Gilby. From
higher levels o