"Hello," he said in the tempo of no great surprise, but purpling up into his lightish hair. "I know you. You're Lilly Becker."
"Harry, I cannot believe my eyes! I haven't seen you since you were in knickers. And to think we remembered each other! Come here a minute out of the crowd. I want to talk to you."
He followed her with some reluctance and a great sheepishness out of Broadway into quieter Thirty-fourth Street, twirling his hat, his nervousness growing.
"You look fine, Lilly."
"What are you doing here, Harry? How is your grandma? St. Louis?"
She could have embraced, cried over him, the loneliness of years seeming to rush to a head.
"Gramaw and I live here."
"Harry, not really!"
"Nearly two years, now."
"Where?"