She was a woman, but, I was again an awkward, stammering boy, rebelliously declining to believe that a state she had come away from could retain any significance, industrial or otherwise.

Nor, in the little time left to us, did I ever achieve a condition higher than this.
Consciously I was a prince of lofty origin in her presence, but ever unable to make known my excellencies of rank.

It was as in a dream when we must see evil approach without power to raise an averting hand.
She was Spring with a stolen crown of Autumn; and again, she was a sherbet--sweet, fragrant, cold, and about to melt--but not for me.

I knew that.
I heard presently that she spoke well of me.

She spoke of my having a kind face--even the kindest face in the world.
"The _kindest, plainest_ face in the world," was her fashion of putting it.