It did not occur to her that
his coming might not be an accident, and she was pleased to see him
again.
Her bringing up, in all that concerned her treatment of men, had been
neglected; rather, it had not been given at all. As a schoolgirl she had
never met any men except a few mild youths when visiting Lady MacMillan,
and then she had never seen them alone. She had thought herself a child,
and had behaved as a child, in those days. Then had come her years as a
postulant and as a novice. Men had ceased to exist as influences in her
life. It had not been necessary to teach her what to do when in their
society, for it had seemed improbable that she ever would be. When, at
the last moment, she had decided that after all she "had not the
vocation," there had been little or no time to prepare her for the
world. And she had come out of the convent with no social wisdom except
the wisdom of kindness and courtesy to all fellow-beings.
Man was decidedly a fellow-being, and Mary, to whom he was interesting
because entirely new, was inclined to be very kind to him, especially
when he had the handsome, almost tragic dark face of a Romeo or a young
Dante, and eyes like wells of ink into which diamonds had fallen.
She was feeling childishly pleased with herself in her new dress, for
she loved beautiful things, and knew next to nothing of suitability,
provided the colours were right. By day, one had blouses and skirts,
and high-necked frocks. At night, if one were in the world, one wore low
gowns.
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