“Yes,” she said, wondering whether he would tell her what his name was, or whether they would never meet again.
“In a very short time we shall have arrived,” he said quickly. “You will permit me to say that I hope we shall meet as friends? Here is my card. Please do not look at it now—I have a reason,” meeting her look of inquiry with a smile as he handed her the little slip of cardboard to her. “If you will grant me permission I will send you seats for the ‘Coliseum’ to-morrow, as I—know the manager, Mr. Harbury, and so it is nothing. You will like to see Hamlet?”
“Very much indeed. I have the greatest longing to see Francis Keene, and to compare him with Mr. Leighton.”
“He will not bear the comparison,” her companion smiled. “You would not, I suppose, entertain the idea of acting as secretary to a literary man?” he said presently. “And possibly writing his wife’s letters as well? I have a friend who is wanting a lady in that capacity, and I think you would suit him admirably, that is, if I am not too impertinent?”
“Oh! no; you are very kind to think of me. How you must dislike the stage,” laughing a little, “to endeavour to persuade even a stranger to leave it alone.”
He turned to her and held out his hand.
“It is because I no longer think of you as a stranger, Miss——”
“Winstanley,” putting her hand into his.
“Thank you. I will give you the address of my friend, so that if you should care to see him you might write in a day or two; in any case, he would be a good person for you to know. May I mention your name? His wife gives ‘At Homes’ every Saturday, and you would meet many professionals there. Here is the address.”
“Meanwhile I am not to know of whom I am to think as a true friend.”