e is so much truth in this remark that Luttrell sees the wisdom of
abstaining from further trial of their strength, and, falling into an
easier position, makes as though he too would leave the bridge by the
side from which she came on it. This brings them nearly face to face.

Now, dear reader, were you ever in the middle of a crossing, eager to
reach the other side of the street? And did you ever meet anybody
coming toward you on that crossing, also anxious to reach his other
side of the street? And did you ever find yourself and that person
politely dancing before each other for a minute or so, debarring each
other's progress, because, unhappily, both your thoughts led you in the
same direction? And did you ever feel an irresistible desire to stop
short and laugh aloud in that person's face? Because now all this
happens to Molly and Luttrell.

Each appears full of a dignified haste to quit the other's society.
Molly steps to the right, so does Luttrell to the left, at the very
same instant; Luttrell, with angry correction of his first movement,
steps again to his first position, and so, without pausing, does Molly.
Each essay only leaves them as they began, looking fair into each
other's eyes. When this has happened three times, Molly stops short and
bursts into a hearty laugh.

"Do try to stay still for one second," she says, with a smile, "and
then perhaps we shall manage it. Thank you."

Then, being angry with herself, for her mistaken merriment, like a true
woman she vents her displeasure upon him.

"I suppose you knew I was coming here this evening," she exclaims, with
ridiculous injustice, "and followed to spoil any little peace I might
have?"

"I did not know you were coming here. Had I known it----"

A pause.

"Well,"--imperiously,--"why do you hesitate? Say the unkind thing. I
hate innuendoes. Had you known it----"

"I should certainly have gone the other way." Coldly: "Meanly as you
may think of me, I have not fallen so low that I should seek to annoy
you by my presence."

"Then without doubt you have come to this quiet place searching for
solitude, in which to think out all your hard thoughts of me."

"I never think hardly of you, Molly."

"You certainly were not thinking kindly."

Now, he might easily have abashed her at this point by asking "where
was the necessity to think of her at all?" but there is an innate
courtesy, a natural gentleness about Luttrell that utterly forbids him.

"An