In the Days of the Comet

I recall with a vivid precision her queer start when she heard the rustle of my approaching feet, her surprise, her eyes almost of dismay for me.  I could recollect, I believe, every significant word she spoke during our meeting, and most of what I said to her.  At least, it seems I could, though indeed I may deceive myself.  But I will not make the attempt.  We were both too ill-educated to speak our full meanings, we stamped out our feelings with clumsy stereotyped phrases; you who are better taught would fail to catch our intention.  The effect would be inanity.  But our first words I may give you, because though they conveyed nothing to me at the time, afterwards they meant much.

“You, Willie!” she said.

“I have come,” I said—­forgetting in the instant all the elaborate things I had intended to say.  “I thought I would surprise you—­”

“Surprise me?”

“Yes.”

She stared at me for a moment.  I can see her pretty face now as it looked at me—­her impenetrable dear face.  She laughed a queer little laugh and her color went for a moment, and then so soon as she had spoken, came back again.

“Surprise me at what?” she said with a rising note.

I was too intent to explain myself to think of what might lie in that.

“I wanted to tell you,” I said, “that I didn’t mean quite . . . the things I put in my letter.”