Most certainly, at that moment, the truth of this dictum was demonstrated in a manner which would have surprised even the doughty philosopher himself.
Curtis saw nothing, knew nothing, thought of nothing not strictly bounded by the fact that Hermione, and none other, stood there.

He gazed at her spell-bound for a second or two.

He neither moved nor spoke, but remained stock-still, with the newspapers gathered in his hands, while his eyes blazed into hers without any pretense of restraint.
She was rosy red, partly because of the wine-like morning air through which she had walked swiftly, but more, perhaps, because of a very real embarrassment and contriteness of spirit.
"I came," she faltered--"I am here--that is--will you ever forgive me!----" Down went the papers, and round Hermione went Curtis's strong arms.

He was a man of thew and sinew, against whom a slender girl's strength might not hope to prevail.

The last thing she looked for was to be embraced at sight.