"It is I, Courtney,—Rosabel," came in low, tremulous tones.
He stood stockstill, peering intently.
"Rosabel!" he repeated vacantly.
"I—I saw you. The auto lamp shone on your face."
Her teeth were chattering. Her voice was little more than a whisper.
"You—you poor child!" he cried. "What are you doing here? How do you happen to be—"
"I came over to spend the night with Annie Jordan. I—I do that quite often, Courtney. Aren't—aren't you ever coming to see me again?"
"I was planning to come over tomorrow, Rosie,—tomorrow sure. I've been meaning to run over to your house—"
"I—I thought you had forgotten all about us," she broke in, pathetically. "You wouldn't do that, would you? Didn't you get my letters? I wrote four or five times and you never answered. You—you haven't forgotten, have you?"
"Bless your heart, no! I should say not. I've been so busy. Working like a dog on my book. The one we talked about, Rosie. The story of my experiences over in France, you know."