Was this she who had wept before him--was it she who had been redolent of kindness so fragrantly natural and true--was it she who said she "loved all these people very much, in spite of having known them only two days"?
He cried out upon himself for a fool.

What was he in her eyes but a man who had needed to be told that she did not love him! Had he not better--and more courteously to her--have avoided the meeting which was necessarily an embarrassment to her?
But no; he must rush like a Mohawk till he found her and forced her to rebuff him, to veil her kindness in little manners, to remind him that he put himself in the character of a rejected importunate.

She had punished him enough, perhaps a little too cruelly enough, in leaving him with the man to whom she handed bouquets as a matter of course.

And this man was one whose success had long been a trumpet at his ear, blaring loudly of his own failure in the same career.
It had been several years since he first heard of the young editor of the Rouen "Journal," and nowadays almost everybody knew about Brainard Macauley.

Outwardly, he was of no unusual type: an American of affairs; slight, easy, yet alert; relaxed, yet sharp; neat, regular, strong; a quizzical eye, a business chin, an ambitious head with soft, straight hair outlining a square brow; and though he was "of a type," he was not commonplace, and one knew at once that he would make a rattling fight to arrive where he was going.
It appeared that he had heard of Harkless, as well as the Carlow editor of him.