“I am sorry. Perhaps we shall never meet again,” he said in low tones. “I never even had a photograph of you—I could do a sketch from that.”
“I don’t think I have any. You did a sketch of me once,” she reminded him, “but I’m not going to give you that. That’s precious—an example of your first manner.” The gay note in her voice sounded rather strained. “Don’t you remember? You sent it me when you first went to Halifax, please don’t remember how many years ago.”
But he did remember. And he remembered, too, how he had sent it her as a slight return for the Arabian Nights. He had lost her gift (through the carelessness of Jack Floss) very soon after, but she cherished his still.
He moved to her side, watching her rummage among heaps of papers. He saw the backs of two photographs, and picked them up. One was a portrait of Linda Verder, the other of himself.
“Both public celebrities,” she said, with a little confused laugh. “I’ve never attained to the shop-windows, so naturally I am scarcer.” She continued her search, and at last turned up something. “Ah, there’s an old one—or rather a young one. Me at sixteen! Goodness, to think I’ve still got that!”
His flaccid nerves sent fresh moisture to his eyes as he gazed at the simple picture of the sweet, delicate, girlish face, with large eyes luminous with dreams, looking out shyly upon life in a sort of wistful wonder and expectation, unconscious, unprophetic of the blank years when eyes grow dim with sudden unsought tears.
His voice was broken as he said: “Thank you. This is the picture I would most have wished to have. Henceforward I shall think of you, earnest, truthful, aspiring ... as you have thought of me all these years. And now I suppose I must not keep you any longer from your duties.”
“Oh, they are nothing. It is your time that is precious, I know. I am rejoiced to have had this glimpse of you in your fame and happiness. I shall always remember this afternoon. Good-bye, Mr. Strang.” She held out her hand.
He put his, with the portrait, behind his back. “No, I won’t,” he said, petulantly. “Not if you call me that.”
She dropped her hand with a sad smile.