“That’s almost next year. Is there no means of seeing you before?”
She stared with all her brightness. “Do you mean you’d come?”
“Like a shot, if you’ll be so good as to ask me!”
“On Sunday then—this next Sunday?”
“What have I done that you should doubt it?” the young man asked with delight.
Miss Fancourt turned instantly to St. George, who had now joined them, and announced triumphantly: “He’s coming on Sunday—this next Sunday!”
“Ah my day—my day too!” said the famous novelist, laughing, to their companion.
“Yes, but not yours only. You shall meet in Manchester Square; you shall talk—you shall be wonderful!”
“We don’t meet often enough,” St. George allowed, shaking hands with his disciple. “Too many things—ah too many things! But we must make it up in the country in September. You won’t forget you’ve promised me that?”
“Why he’s coming on the twenty-fifth—you’ll see him then,” said the girl.