d
that Emma had gone out shopping--Emma was the grimy girl who
ordinarily waited on him--so, with a nervous little laugh, with a toss
of the long curl, which was supposed to have got in the way somehow,
and with the turquoise earrings quivering in the candlelight, she
brought in the tray. She conveyed by her manner that it was a new and
amusing experience in her life, but that the burden was almost more
than her strength could support, and that she required assistance.
Percival, who had stood up when she came in and thanked her gravely
from his position on the hearthrug, came forward and swept some books
and papers out of the way to make room for her load. In so doing their
hands touched--his white and beautifully shaped, hers clumsy and
coarsely colored. (It was not poor Lydia's fault. She had written to
more than one of those amiable editors who devote a column or two in
family magazines to settling questions of etiquette, giving recipes
for pomades and puddings, and telling you how you may take stains
out of silk, get rid of freckles or know whether a young man means
anything by his attentions. There had been a little paragraph
beginning, "L.'s hands are not as white as she could wish, and she
asks us what she is to do. We can only recommend," etc. Poor L. had
tried every recommendation in faith and in vain, and was in a fair way
to learn the hopelessness of her quest.)

The touch thrilled her with pleasure and Thorne with repugnance. He
drew back, while she busied herself in arranging his cup, saucer and
plate. She dropped the spoon on the tray, scolded herself for her own
stupidity, looked up at him with a hurried apology, and laughed.
If she did not blush, she conveyed by her manner a sort of idea of
blushing, and went out of the room with a final giggle, being confused
by his opening the door for her.

Percival breathed again, relieved from an oppression, and wondered
what on earth had made her take an interest in his tea and him. Yet
the reason was not far to seek. It was that tragic, melancholy, hero's
face of his--he felt so little like a hero that it was hard for him
to realize that he looked like one--his sombre eyes, which might have
been those of an exile thinking of his home, the air of proud and
rather old-fashioned courtesy which he had inherited from his
grandfather the rector and developed for himself. Every girl is ready
to find something of the prince in one who treats her with deference
as if sh