“Don’t you know me?”
I stopped in astonishment.
“Why—why, what are you doing here?”
“I was waiting for you.”
I could think of nothing better to say than, “On an evening like this?”
“Oh, I don’t mind that. We arrived only this afternoon. You see, my father can’t get back from California, and mother wouldn’t spend Christmas in town. We’re not going to have any Christmas, and so—”
We struggled across the walk to the pavilion, which, though open on all sides, afforded at least an overhead protection.
“How did you know where to find me?” I asked, stupidly.
“Ralph Coningsby told me—and the time you would be coming out. I—I’ve something—something rather special to—to say to you.”