She laughed lightly.
“How very unprofessional of me! I ought to have given you a card! For all you know I may be an impostor, indulging an unpardonable curiosity. My name is Wendermott—Ernestine Wendermott.”
He repeated it after her.
“Thank you,” he said. “I am beginning to think of some more things which I might have told you.”
“Why, I should have to write a novel then to get them all in,” she said. “I am sure you have given me all the material I need here.”
“I am going,” he said abruptly, “to ask you something very strange and very presumptuous!”
She looked at him in surprise, scarcely understanding what he could mean.
“May I come and see you some time?”
The earnestness of his gaze and the intense anxiety of his tone almost disconcerted her. He was obviously very much in earnest, and she had found him far from uninteresting.
“By all means,” she answered pleasantly, “if you care to. I have a little flat in Culpole Street—No. 81. You must come and have tea with me one afternoon.”