Dewsbury said, nodding. "He's
one of your own kind, as dreadful as you are; very free and
advanced; a perfect firebrand. In fact, my dear child, I don't
know which of you makes my hair stand on end most." And with that
introductory hint, she left the pair forthwith to their own
devices.
Mrs. Dewsbury was right. It took those two but little time to feel
quite at home with one another. Built of similar mould, each
seemed instinctively to grasp what each was aiming at. Two or
three turns pacing up and down the lawn, two or three steps along
the box-covered path at the side, and they read one another
perfectly. For he was true man, and she was real woman.
"Then you were at Girton?" Alan asked, as he paused with one hand
on the rustic seat that looks up towards Leith Hill, and the
heather-clad moorland.
"Yes, at Girton," Herminia answered, sinking easily upon the bench,
and letting one arm rest on the back in a graceful attitude of
unstudied attention. "But I didn't take my degree," she went on
hurriedly, as one who is anxious to disclaim some too great honor
thrust upon her.
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