"What ages ago it seems since last we met!" says he, promptly.
"Ages? No, months. It was last June we met, I think—and here."
"Oh, that was only the barest glimpse; one could hardly call it a meeting. I was referring to my visit to the Leslies two years ago. You remember that little scene in the High street, at Carston?"
I laughed merrily.
"'I do indeed. But for you the finale would have been too ignominious. I shall always owe you a debt of gratitude for your timely appearance. The saddle turned, I recollect, exactly opposite the Bank, and I had a horrid vision of two or three young men gazing at me in eager expectation from some of the windows."
"Yes; and then we met again, and—- Shall I peel one of these for you?"
"Please."
"And I flattered myself you treated me with some degree of graciousness; flattered myself so far that I presumed to send you a little volume of poems I had heard you wish for and which—you returned. That was rather cruel, was it not?"
"I have always felt how rude you must have thought me on that occasion." I reply, blushing hotly. "I did so long to tell you all about it, but could not. It was not my fault, however; I confess I would have kept it if possible: it was papa. He said you should not have sent it, and insisted on its being returned."
"Well, perhaps he was right. Yet it was a very harmless and innocent little volume, after all, containing only the mildest sentiments. (Is that a good one?)"