They called him the old man, no doubt, because his age was barely forty and because he looked younger than any of them.
Carpentaria descended from his throne, smiling absently at the applause of his band as he made his way through them to the steps leading down from the bandstand to the level of the gardens. He had only to move a few paces in order to be lost in the surging crowd. But before he could do this, he heard a voice:
“Mr. Carpentaria.”
He turned sharply. It was a woman’s voice. It was more—it was Pauline’s voice. Had she come to meet him? Impossible! That would have been too much happiness. However, he determined to ascertain, and he ascertained in his usual direct manner.
“Did you come specially to meet me?” he demanded.
And she replied, in a low voice:
“Yes.”
“That was extremely kind of you,” he said, trembling with joy.
“No,” she protested. “I had something to tell you—and———” She hesitated, and then stopped.
“Suppose we take a little stroll,” he suggested.