was all I could think of at the time: perhaps the night
suggested it; they had qualities in common. It was a woman's voice, but
a determined woman's. I knew of course that Little Miss had come. But
also I knew at once--this being her voice--that it would not be in my
power to call her Little Miss.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE STRAIN OF PEAVEY

It was too true that I could not call her "Little Miss," as I had
lightly called her mother "Miss Caroline" at our first encounter. Of a
dusky pallor was Miss Lansdale when I first beheld her under the night
of her hair. As the waning light showed me her, I thought of a blossomed
young sloe tree in her own far valley of the Old Dominion. Closer to her
I could note only that she was dark but fair, for observations of this
character became, for some reason, impracticable in her immediate
presence.

She greeted me kindly, as her mother's lawyer; she was cordial to me a
moment, as her mother's friend; but later, when these debts of civility
had been duly paid, when we had gone from the outer dusk into candle
light, she favored me only with occasional glances of the mildest
curiosity, in which was neither kindness nor cordiality. Not that these
had given way to their opposites; they were simply not there. Not the
faintest hint of unfriendliness could I detect. Miss Lansdale had merely
detached herself into a magnificent void of disinterest, from the centre
of which she surveyed me without prejudice in moments when her glance
could not be better occupied.

I have caught much the same look in the eyes of twelve bored jurymen who
were, nevertheless, bound to give my remarks their impartial attention.
Sometimes one may know from the look of these twelve that one's case is
already as good as lost; or, at least, that an opinion has been reached
which new and important testimony will be required to change.

It occurred to me as my call wore on that I caught even a hint of this
prejudgment in the eyes of the young woman. It put me sorely at a
disadvantage, for I knew not what I was expected to prove; knew not if I
were on trial as her mother's lawyer, her mother's friend, or as a mere
man. The latter seemed improbable as an offence, for was not my judge a
daughter of Miss Caroline? And yet, strangely enough, I came to think
that this must be my offence--that I was a man. She made me feel this in
her careless, incidental glances, her manner of turning briskly from me
to address her mothe