We Two | Page 3

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Etext typed by Theresa Armao

We Two
By Edna Lyall

CHAPTER I
. Brian Falls in Love
Still humanity grows dearer, Being learned the more. Jean Ingelow.
There are three things in this world which deserve no quarter--
Hypocrisy, Pharisaism, and Tyranny. F. Robertson
People who have been brought up in the country, or in small places
where every neighbor is known by sight, are apt to think that life in a
large town must lack many of the interests which they have learned to
find in their more limited communities. In a somewhat bewildered way,
they gaze at the shifting crowd of strange faces, and wonder whether it
would be possible to feel completely at home where all the
surroundings of life seem ever changing and unfamiliar.
But those who have lived long in one quarter of London, or of any
other large town, know that there are in reality almost as many links
between the actors of the town life-drama as between those of the
country life-drama.
Silent recognitions pass between passengers who meet day after day in
the same morning or evening train, on the way to or from work; the
faces of omnibus conductors grow familiar; we learn to know perfectly
well on what day of the week and at what hour the well-known
organ-grinder will make his appearance, and in what street we shall
meet the city clerk or the care-worn little daily governess on their way
to office or school. It so happened that Brian Osmond, a young doctor
who had not been very long settled in the Bloomsbury regions, had an
engagement which took him every afternoon down Gower Street, and
here many faces had grown familiar to him. He invariably met the same
sallow-faced postman, the same nasal-voiced milkman, the same
pompous-looking man with the bushy whiskers and the shiny black bag,
on his way home from the city. But the only passenger in whom he
took any interest was a certain bright-faced little girl whom he
generally met just before the Montague Place crossing. He always
called her his "little girl," though she was by no means little in the

ordinary acceptation of the word, being at least sixteen, and rather tall
for her years. But there was a sort of freshness and naivete and
youthfulness about her which made him use that adjective. She usually
carried a pile of books in a strap, so he conjectured that she must be
coming from school, and, ever since he had first seen her, she had worn
the same rough blue serge dress, and the same quaint little fur hat. In
other details, however, he could never tell in the least how he should
find her. She seemed to have a mood for every day. Sometimes she
would be in a great hurry and would almost run past him; sometimes
she would saunter along in the most unconventional way, glancing
from time to time at a book or a