She knew he meant that, and she loved him for his ambition, his energy, his determination. Presently he would come hurrying in, eager to tell her exactly what he had been doing, absolutely confident that she would understand, that she hadn’t minded waiting. He would talk about the fine things that were going to happen—in five years’ time. He would talk about large, impressive things. The little things—her things—would never be mentioned.
For she could not hurt and trouble him by telling him how her back ached and her head ached from typing all day, or how unreasonable, how beastly, Miss Clarke had become, how lamentably the meals had deteriorated in her little hotel under the new management, or how very awkward it was to explain to sundry young men that she would never go out with them, and wished to see them no more.
“It would be like throwing rocks on a railway track,” she reflected, smiling a little at the fancy. “It would derail poor Barty, just when he’s flying along so splendidly, too!”
A very nice young couple at the next table rose and went out, and Jacqueline looked after them with a curious expression. She decided that they were engaged, would soon be married, and would go to live in a new little house somewhere, or even a flat—any place where lamps would be lighted at this twilight hour.
“Miss Miles!” exclaimed a delighted voice. Looking up, she saw Mr. Terrill. “I just dropped in to buy some chocolates,” he explained, “and I saw you!”
He spoke as if it were the most amazing and delightful thing that could have befallen him. Never before had Jacqueline seen Mr. Terrill except in the presence of Miss Clarke, and she was surprised at the difference in him.
Miss Clarke, the authoress, somehow had a way of dwarfing all those about her. She was so brilliant, so handsome, so humorous. Jacqueline herself, secretary to this eminent woman, had always felt very young and very uninteresting, and Mr. Terrill had seemed to her an agreeable but rather insipid gentleman.
He did not appear insipid now. He had, thought Jacqueline, a really distinguished[Pg 208] air. He was a tall, slight man of perhaps thirty-five, with a sensitive, well bred face and a singularly pleasant voice. He was looking down at her.
“Miss Miles!” he said. “You look tired.”
“I am tired,” replied Jacqueline.