The trajectory was low, but Zahn, with legs and arms extended, shot across the asphalt pavement, and fell sprawling at the feet of a dainty figure dressed in muslins and ribbons of rainbow hue.
It was Rachel Varnhagen, tripping home to her tea. With a little scream of elegant surprise, she dropped her parasol, and gazed at the prostrate form of her jilted lover.
Gathering himself up stiffly, Isaac stood, whimpering, before her; his whining interspersed with unprintable invective.
Scarlett, however, heedless of the anathemas of the stricken clerk, stepped from the door of The Lucky Digger, picked up the fallen parasol, and handed it politely to Rachel.
In less than a moment she recognised him.
“Oh, thanks,” she said. “It’s really awfully good of you.”
“What? To kick this unmitigated blackguard?”
“I’ve no doubt he deserved it,” she said, glancing with disgust at the clerk. “It’s charming of you to pick up my sunshade. I hope you’re coming up to see us—Papa wants to see you awfully. It would be lovely if you would come to-night.”
“Thank you. I’ll try. I hope you are none the worse for the fright you got.”
“Thanks, I’m not dead. What a terrible man you are—I wouldn’t like to quarrel with you. Say eight o’clock.”