"Yes."
She, dallying, as a woman will, quite well knew that there was a spark. That it would burst into flame, chose she to fan it; gained time by asking:
"Why?"
He vaulted on to his hobby horse. The question was a stirrup helping him to the saddle.
"Because I—may I say it?—hail you in a measure as a kindred soul."
She lifted her eyes; he could not fail to read the astonishment filling them; continued:
"You are here in October, and you don't look bored; don't look as if life held no further charm for you. You do not follow the fashionable decrying of the place simply because it is out of fashion—because it is October."
She smiled. Encouraged by it, he continued, in the same strain:
"You are always alone, yet you create the impression that you are happy. You don't seem to sigh for bands of music, to hanker after a crowded promenade. You find existence possible without a shoal of people to help you pass your time."
Her smile broadened into a laugh. This time at herself—at his description of her; she asked: