Now, if ever people had a platt, it was these two. That distance was measured in their mind, yard by yard.
At last he held her hand.
"I was," she began at once, "going to write. But I didn't know your address."
"You were going to write----?"
He pulled forward a chair for her, near to his.
"Yes--I was going to write and tell you--I'm terribly sorry, but I can't come this morning----" and she sat down.
A look of deepest disappointment was so plainly written in his face as he seated himself beside her. He made no effort to render it illegible to those eyes of hers.
"Why not?" said he, despondently. "Why can't you come?"
"Oh--you wouldn't understand if I told you."
This was the moment for the ferrule of an umbrella, or the point of an elegant shoe. But she had not brought the umbrella, and her shoes, well--she was unable to come that morning, so it had scarcely mattered what she had put on. The toe of the shoe did peep out for a moment from under the skirt, but not being approved of for elegance, it withdrew. She was forced to fall back upon words; so she just repeated herself to emphasise them.