Shelefttheroom。Iturnedawaytowardsthewindow，wherenothingfacedmebutthelonelyautumnlandscape——Iturnedawaytomastermyself，beforeItoolefttheroominmyturn，andleftitforever。
Aminutepassed——itcouldhardlyhavebeenmore——whenIheardthedooropenagainsoftly，andtherustlingofawoman’sdressonthecarpetmovedtowardsme。MyheartbeatviolentlyasIturnedround。MissFairliewasapproachingmefromthefartherendoftheroom。
Shestoppedandhesitatedwhenoureyesmet，andwhenshesawthatwewerealone。Then，withthatcouragewhichwomenlosesoofteninthesmallemergency，andsoseldominthegreat，shecameonnearertome，strangelypaleandstrangelyquiet，drawingonehandafterheralongthetablebywhichshewalked，andholdingsomethingathersideintheother，whichwashiddenbythefoldsofherdress。
`Ionlywentintothedrawing-room，’shesaid，`tolookforthis。Itmayremindyouofyourvisithere，andofthefriendsyouleavebehindyou。YoutoldmeIhadimprovedverymuchwhenIdidit，andIthoughtyoumightlike——’
Sheturnedherheadaway，andofferedmealittlesketch，drawnthroughoutbyherownpencil，ofthesummer-houseinwhichwehadfirstmet。Thepapertrembledinherhandasshehelditouttome——trembledinmineasI