Explore "The Incomplete Amorist" by Edith Nesbit on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Betty had to run all the way home, and then she was late for dinner. Her step-father's dry face and dusty clothes, the solid comfort of the mahogany furnished dining room, the warm wet scent of mutton, -- these seemed needed to wake her from what was, when she had awakened, a dream -- the open sky, the sweet air of the May fields and _Him_. Already the stranger was Him to Betty. But, then, she did not know his name.
She slipped into her place at the foot of the long white dining table, a table built to serve a dozen guests, and where no guests ever sat, save rarely a curate or two, and more rarely even, an aunt.