During the programme Bles applauded vociferously every number that pleased him, which is to say, every one‚ÅÝ‚Äîand stamped his feet, until he realized that he was attracting considerable attention to himself. Then the entertainment straightway lost all its charm; he grew painfully embarrassed, and for the remainder of the evening was awkwardly self-conscious. When all was over, the audience rose leisurely and stood in little knots and eddies, laughing and talking; many moved forward to say a word to the singers and players, Stillings stepped aside to a group of men, and Bles was left miserably alone. A man came to him, a white-faced man, with slightly curling close gray hair, and high-bred ascetic countenance.
“You are a stranger?” he asked pleasantly, and Bles liked him.
“Yes, sir,” he answered, and they fell to talking. He discovered that this was the pastor of the church.
“Do you know no one in town?”
‚ÄúOne or two of my fellow clerks and Mr. ¬ÝStillings. Oh, yes, I‚Äôve met Miss Wynn.‚Äù
“Why, here is Miss Wynn now.”
Bles turned. She was right behind him, the centre of a group. She turned, slowly, and smiled.
“Oh!” she uttered twice, but with difference cadence. Then something like amusement lurked a moment in her eye, and she quietly presented Bles to her friends, while Stillings hovered unnoticed in the offing: