But she would send him only this:
"Of course I was looking at you. Why not? It's only courtesy to recognize the salutation of a gentleman disguised in working clothes, standing in the door of a queer-looking South American residence. Besides—he looks rather well, I think!"
One April evening Mr. Julius Broughton, sitting comfortably in his room in a certain well-known building at a well-known university, was summoned to telephone. Bringing his feet to the floor with a thump, flinging aside his book and puffing away at his pipe, he lounged unwillingly to the telephone box. The following conversation ensued, causing a sudden and distinct change in the appearance of the young man.
"Broughton," he acknowledged the call. "Broughton? This is
Waldron—Kirke Waldron."
"Who?"
"Waldron; up from Colombia, South America. Forgotten me?"
"What! Forgotten you! I say—when did you come? Where are you?
Will you—"
The distant voice cut in sharply: "Hold on. I've just about one minute to spend talking. Can you come downtown to the Warrington Street Station? If you'll be there at ten, sharp, under the south-side clock, I can see you for ten minutes before I leave for the train. I want to see you very much. Explain everything then."
"Of course I'll come; delighted! Be right down. But aren't you going to—"
"I'll explain later," said Waldron's decisive voice again. "Sorry to ring off now. Good-bye."