“Then I am not quite forgotten,” smiles Jack, as he takes the little black-gloved hand.
“Forgotten? Ah, no, indeed. I was only startled to meet one familiar face amid this never-ending procession of strangers. But this, I presume, is your native heath, Mr. Ashley? How do you carry the memory of so many faces?” as Ashley bows for the dozenth time toward the stream of pedestrians.
“That is a part of our business, Miss Hathaway. A newspaper man acquires a passing acquaintance with all classes of society. But to drop shop talk, tell me of Raymond and of yourself. I feel quite an interest in the quaint old town. Here is Maillard’s close by. Suppose we drop in and have a cup of chocolate. Oh, it is quite the thing,” smiles Jack, as Miss Hathaway hesitates a moment. “Everybody goes to Maillard’s after a shopping tour.”
“Then, as we are in Rome, we must imitate the Romans,” she acquiesces. “For surely these bundles must be quite sufficient to convict me of having been shopping.”
When she is snugly ensconced in an alcove, with a steaming cup of the beverage so dear to the feminine heart before her, Jack studies her face across the tiny table.
More beautiful if that were possible, than ever, he decides, watching the shifting color in the rounded cheek; with more animation—yes, decidedly more animation; quite a different being from the doubly bereaved daughter of the dead cashier of nearly a year ago. But what is she doing in New York? thinks Jack, with a sudden twinge in the cardiac region that astonishes even himself. It cannot be that she has heard from Derrick Ames, and besides, her sister—What rot, he mentally concludes, as the subject of his thoughts suddenly looks up and catches his puzzled expression.
Miss Hathaway’s eyes twinkle. “Has it just occurred to you that you have left your pocketbook at home?” she asks. “Your expression was just such as the humorous artists attach to the subjects of such unfortunate contretemps.”
“Ah, but that seldom does happen in real life, Miss Hathaway. No; my sole earthly possessions are at this moment resting securely in the bottom of one small pocket. But what lucky chance brought you within range of my defective vision on Broadway this afternoon?”
“Oh, I have been a dweller in the metropolis since last Saturday. We, that is Mr. Felton and myself, are en route to Cuba.”
“To Cuba! Pardon me, but why to that war-racked isle? You see, I have just returned from interviewing a native of Cuba on the situation there, and his description hardly makes it out as a desirable watering-place just at present.”