Wilfrid had, on first meeting her, remarked to himself that it must imply a Certain force of individuality to vary so distinctly from the commonplace even under the disadvantage of complete self-suppression; he had now come to understand better the way in which that individuality betrayed itself.
'Shall you go to Cleethorpes this year ?' was his next question.
'I think not.

I shall most likely pass the holidays at home.' 'And study electricity ?' In a former conversation she had surprised him by some unexpected knowledge of the principles of electricity, and explained the acquirement by telling him that this subject was her father's favourite study.

Wilfrid put the question now with a smile.
'Yes, very likely,' she replied, smiling also, but faintly.

'It gives my father pleasure when I do so.' 'You have not a keen interest in the subject yourself ?' 'I try to have.' Her voice was of singular quality; if she raised it the effect was not agreeable, owing possibly to its lack of strength, but in low tones, such as she employed at present, it fell on the ear with a peculiar sweetness, a natural melody in its modulation.
'The way in which you speak of your father interests me,' said Wilfrid, leaning his chin upon his hand, and gazing at her freely.

'You seem so united with him in sympathy.' She did not turn her eyes to him, but her face gathered brightness.
'In sympathy, yes,' she replied, speaking now with more readiness.