E. Nesbit

“ Some people said they had first-class tickets to London, but this could not have been because the retriever always travelled third-class instead of in the dog-box where he belonged.
“It is a pity,” Mr. Templar, in his railway carriage corner, told himself. But the pity of it did not distress him acutely. After all, as the late Robert Louis Stevenson so aptly puts it, “the world is so full of a number of things”—and it is not empty of them just because you saw someone once when she was a child, and feel that you are not likely to see her again now that she is a woman. ”

“ He was quite prepared to find Sylvia just like the others, only more so—and his friends in vain assured him that she was quite different. She was—and when at last he was dragged to see her, the difference struck him in the face like a blow. For when the curtain went up, the scene was a forest glade, painted with all the tender brilliant genius of Mascarille, the prince of scene-painters, delicately tinted, lighted faultlessly. ”

“ Contaminate the young, what? The man was her music-master—a black, curly, oily, fat-nosed little beast, like a half-bred wet retriever. Deuced clever at his beastly music. No other good points. He lodged at the baker’s. Old Mundy came back just in time, or just too late. Some people think one and some the other. Anyhow there was a blazing row. He’d only himself to thank for it all. Unforgiving old ass!”
“It’s jolly hard lines on the girl,” said Edmund, and experienced a sense of guilt. ”

“ A fresh idea strikes you—or a Latin tag is happily quoted—and from that moment every book you take up, every newspaper you throw down will present your idea—misquote and misapply your tag. It was thus with Templar.
In the train, he thought of dancing, and when he got to London he found London talking of nothing else. He dined with the Browns—and the talk was of Miss Matilda Solitaire and dancing. He lunched with the Joneses—and dancing and Miss Peggy Pirouette were served with all the courses. He had tea with the Robinsons—and their talk was of dancing and Dorothea Duncan. ”

“ And I thought her not bad-looking. In fact, there was a sort of a something. And she had a way with her—I’m not sure that she isn’t the sort of girl a man loses his head over—perfectly straight, what? It seems a waste of good material. If she’d had a decent home!”
“If you and Auntie had adopted her,” said Edmund, and wondered.
“As a matter of fact,” said the Uncle, looking disparagingly at his cigar, “I did suggest something of the kind when she was quite small. She was an engaging little thing. Old Mundy cut me for two years after that.
Templar’s heart warmed to his Uncle. ”

“ Templar asked, arrived at the lounge.
“Why, no one knows where she lives, or what her real name is, or anything about her. She’s just Sylvia. She won’t be interviewed, won’t give her autograph. No one’s ever seen her to speak to, that I know of.”
“She’s straight then?”
“I hope so, I’m sure. Everybody’s most awfully gone on her. Some of the fellows are quite silly. She gets heaps of flowers, and lots of other things—chocolates and jewellery, and fur coats and things. One old chap sent a motor for her—a present ”

“ Edmund put it that the return of a really respectable prodigal should be celebrated with yet another cigar, and sitting up a little longer, and the fire so jolly, too—applewood, wasn’t it?
“Yes—I never let them waste the orchard thinnings. There’s no wood like it.—Thanks—no, I never use a match.” ”