“I know it.... I’m sorry I didn’t come down on Friday. But....”
“My dear! I was young once myself! I don’t blame you, not the least bit in the world. I don’t blame you for forgetting all about work! He’s perfectly charming!”
“Who!” cried Rosaleen.
“Oh, I know all about it!” said Miss Waters archly. “That nice young man of yours. You know that day we went to the library together? Well.... He came tearing after me as I was walking down Fifth Avenue, and he asked me if you’d gone home.... The most beautiful manners, my dear!... A real Southern gentleman!... He was so disappointed when he found you’d gone. He said he’d seen us go in, and he was waiting for us to come out. And he walked all the way down here with me, talking about you all the time. And I said why didn’t he go to call on you? And he said he would—that very evening.”
“Oh!... Miss Waters!”
The desperation in her voice startled the European Art Teacher. She came out of her bedroom, still fastening the crooked little “vestee” of her brown dress.
“Did you miss him?” she asked, anxiously.
“He never came!”
“That’s queer! He said he would.... He sat down and talked—the longest time.... No one could have been nicer.... He asked all sorts of questions about you.”
“Well, what did you tell him?” cried Rosaleen. “He never came!”