I had not spoken to Miss Fairlie⁠—I had not even seen her⁠—all that day. The first meeting with her, when I entered the drawing-room, was a hard trial to her self-control and to mine. She, too, had done her best to make our last evening renew the golden bygone time⁠—the time that could never come again. She had put on the dress which I used to admire more than any other that she possessed⁠—a dark blue silk, trimmed quaintly and prettily with old-fashioned lace; she came forward to meet me with her former readiness⁠—she gave me her hand with the frank, innocent goodwill of happier days. The cold fingers that trembled round mine⁠—the pale cheeks with a bright red spot burning in the midst of them⁠—the faint smile that struggled to live on her lips and died away from them while I looked at it, told me at what sacrifice of herself her outward composure was maintained. My heart could take her no closer to me, or I should have loved her then as I had never loved her yet.