"You are Martin, I think?" was the observation that followed.
It could not have been more felicitous. It was a simple sentence--very artlessly, a little timidly, pronounced; but it chimed in harmony to the youth's nature. It stilled him like a note of music.
Martin had a keen sense of his personality; he felt it right and sensible that the girl should discriminate him from his brothers. Like his father, he hated ceremony. It was acceptable to hear a lady address him as "Martin," and not Mr. Martin or Master Martin, which form would have lost her his good graces for ever. Worse, if possible, than ceremony was the other extreme of slipshod familiarity. The slight tone of bashfulness, the scarcely perceptible hesitation, was considered perfectly in place.

"You are Martin, I think?" It was a simple sentence, a little timid; but it stilled him like a note of music.
Martin had a keen sense of his personality; he felt it right that the girl should know him from his brothers. It was acceptable to hear a lady address him as "Martin," and not Mr. Martin or Master Martin, which would have lost her his good graces for ever. But so would slipshod familiarity. The slight tone of bashfulness was considered perfectly in place.
