“I told you I was—sometimes.”
As the two passed down the stairs—
“I—I suppose you wouldn’t lunch with me, Belinda?”
“Not—not to-day, Ivan.”
“You will one day?”
“Perhaps—one day.”
They passed into Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
The lady’s car was waiting, and Pomeroy opened the door.
“It’s—it’s been a great pleasure,” he said, “to see you again.”
Belinda put out a small hand.