"Oh—" His voice after overcoming a faint tendency to waver went on with friendly formality.
"This is George Rollins. Did you get my letter?"
"Yes. I thought you'd be in to-day."
Her voice, cool and unmoved, disturbed him, but not as he had expected. This was the voice of a stranger, unexcited, pleasantly glad to see him—that was all. He wanted to put down the telephone and catch his breath.
"I haven't seen you for—a long time." He succeeded in making this sound offhand. "Over a year."
He knew how long it had been—to the day.
"It'll be awfully nice to talk to you again."
"I'll be there in about an hour."
He hung up. For four long seasons every minute of his leisure had been crowded with anticipation of this hour, and now this hour was here. He had thought of finding her married, engaged, in love—he had not thought she would be unstirred at his return.
There would never again in his life, he felt, be another ten months like these he had just gone through. He had made an admittedly remarkable showing for a young engineer—stumbled into two unusual opportunities, one in Peru, whence he had just returned, and another, consequent upon it, in New York, whither he was bound. In this short time he had risen from poverty into a position of unlimited opportunity.