“When did you see me?”
“Three evenings ago. You were walking in Tottenham Court Road with a young lady.”
“Miss Vesper, the friend I live with.”
“Will you give me a few minutes now?” he asked humbly. “Is it too late?”
For reply Monica moved slowly on. They turned up one of the ways parallel with Rutland Street, and so came into the quiet district that skirts Regent’s Park, Widdowson talking all the way in a strain of all but avowed tenderness, his head bent towards her and his voice so much subdued that occasionally she lost a few words.
“I can’t live without seeing you,” he said at length. “If you refuse to meet me, I have no choice but to come wandering about the places where you are. Don’t, pray don’t think I spy upon you. Indeed, it is only just to see your face or your form as you walk along. When I have had my journey in vain I go back in misery. You are never out of my thoughts—never.”
“I am sorry for that, Mr. Widdowson.”
“Sorry? Are you really sorry? Do you think of me with less friendliness than when we had our evening on the river?”
“Oh, not with less friendliness. But if I only make you unhappy—”
“In one way unhappy, but as no one else ever had the power to. If you would let me meet you at certain times my restlessness would be at an end. The summer is going so quickly. Won’t you come for that drive with me next Sunday? I will be waiting for you at any place you like to appoint. If you could imagine what joy it would give me!”