She was so b-b-beautiful that it hurt; and I only wanted to look at her; I didn't mind being hurt.

So I walked on and on, and sometimes I'd pass her and sometimes I'd let her pass me, and when she wasn't looking I'd look--not offensively, but just because I _couldn't_ help it.

And all the time my senses were humming like a top and my heart kept jumping to get into my throat, and I hadn't a notion where I was going or what time it was or what day of the week.

She didn't see me; she didn't dream that I was looking at her; she didn't know me from any of the thousand silk-hatted, frock-coated men who passed and repassed her on Fifth Avenue.

And when she went into St.Berold's Church, I went, too, and I stood where I could see her and where she couldn't see me.