"Not in Madelene's time, or in mine, Chum, but if ever a time comes, I'll send you a token."
"Send me your picture, Hop."
"No, I'll send you Madelene's. No, I'll send you the clock with the 'talking eyes.'"
And standing at Hopkins's gate, the scar-faced man with the romance and I parted, like ships that meet, hail and pass on, never to meet again. Hopkins and I moved away from one another, each on his own course, across the seven seas of life.
And all this happened almost twenty years ago.
The other day, my office boy brought me a card that read, "Mrs. Henry Adams, Washington, D. C." "Is she a book agent?" I asked.
"Nope, don't look like one."
"Show her in."
A young woman came in, looked at me hard for a moment, laid a package on my desk and asked,
"Is this the Mr. Alexander who used to be an engineer?"