He called her that one
day. Neither of them had ever thought to ask one another's names;
it did not seem to matter.
"My little brown fawn," he had whispered, "I am always expecting you
to suddenly dig your little heels into the ground and spring away";
and she had laughed and drawn a little closer to him. And even that
was just the movement of a fawn. He had known them, creeping near
to them upon the hill-sides when he was a child.
There was much in common between them, so they found. Though he
could claim a few distant relatives scattered about the North, they
were both, for all practical purposes, alone in the world. To her,
also, home meant a bed-sitting room--"over there," as she indicated
with a wave of the little fawn glove embracing the north-west
district generally; and he did not press her for any more precise
address.
It was easy enough for him to picture it: the mean, close-smelling
street somewhere in the neighbourhood of Lisson Grove, or farther on
towards the Harrow Road. Always he preferred to say good-bye to her
at some point in the Outer Circle, with its peaceful vista of fine
trees and stately houses, watching her little fawn-like figure
fading away into the twilight.
No friend or relative had she ever known, except the pale,
girlish-looking mother who had died soon after they had come to
London.
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