“John,” Mary’s shrill voice called on a note of enthusiasm, “it’s the darlingest thing, and it’s called Snowflake.”
“Oh, come on!” John returned.
Mary came on at a run, and Esmé followed leisurely. And then another delay occurred. John’s patience was exhausted. Girls were all alike, he reflected scornfully; they made a fuss over everything they met. He did not understand why his aunt should stop to speak to the man who had been seated on the stoep, and who now stepped off the stoep and went to meet her. It seemed as though she had forgotten that he was waiting for her to go in with him.
She had stopped still in the path and was talking to the man. She had forgotten John and his suit-case altogether; she had forgotten everything. The weary months of waiting had slipped out of the picture; the present had rolled back into the past. She was back in the old spot with the man beside her whose presence made for her the magic of the place. The ghosts which had met and mocked her on the journey were finally laid to rest.
Hallam had come down the path quickly, and stood in front of her and blocked her way. She stood still, flushed and wondering, and looked at him with eyes which told a tale.
“I began to think you hadn’t come,” he said.
“Oh!” she said, and held out a hand with a slightly nervous laugh. “I never expected to see you. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was coming to the station to meet you,” he said, “but the cart went away fairly loaded. I have been sitting here waiting for you for the past two days. What do you suppose I meant, you dense little thing, when I advised you to take your holiday here? Do you think I’d have left you to wander alone among the musty relics you dreaded? ... I am going to take you to-morrow morning to see the sun rise,” he added in a lighter tone.
Esmé laughed happily.
“I haven’t seen the sun rise since the last time we saw it together,” she said, and scrutinised him for the first time with unwavering eyes.