He was not mental, he was not even superficially bookish, and yet because of a certain magnetic quality--a mere dominant virility--she found herself occupied, to the exclusion of her work, with the words he had uttered, with the tantalising humour in his eyes.
"I am glad that I did not ask him to call," she thought as she took up her pencil.

"He does not interest me and very likely I shall never see him again.

He was pleasant certainly, but one can't make acquaintances of every stranger one happens to meet." Then it seemed to her that she had been distant, almost rude, when he had bidden her good-night, and as she remembered the engaging frankness of his smile, the eager yet humble look with which he had waited at her door for the invitation she did not give, she regretted in spite of herself that she had been so openly inhospitable.

After all there was no reason that one should turn a man from one's door simply because his personality didn't please one's fancy.

For a moment she dragged her mind for some word, some look in which she might have found a shadow of excuse for the dislike she felt.
"No, he said nothing foolish," she confessed at last, "he was only kind and friendly and it is I who have offended--I who have allowed myself to feel an unreasonable aversion." All at once an irritation against herself pervaded her thoughts, and she determined that if she met him again she would be more cordial--that she would force herself to show a particular friendliness.